University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


Wbtttier's 
flboems 


Chicago 

flD.  E.  Donobuc  £  Company 


NOTE  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 

TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1857. 

IN  these  volumes,  for  the  first  time,  a  complete  collection  of  my 
poetical  writings  has  been  made.  While  it  is  satisfactory  to  know 
that  these  scattered  children  of  my  brain  have  found  a  home,  I  can 
not  but  regret  that  I  have  been  unable,  by  reason  of  illness,  to  give 
that  attention  to  their  revision  and  arrangement,  which  respect  for 
the  opinions  of  others  and  my  own  afterthought  and  experience 
demand. 

That  there  are  pieces  in  this  collection  which  I  would  "  willingly 
let  die,"  I  am  free  to  confess.  But  it  is  now  too  late  to  disown 
them,  and  I  must  submit  to  the  inevitable  penalty  of  poetical  as 
well  as  other  sins.  There  are  others,  intimately  connected  with 
the  author's  life  and  times,  which  owe  their  tenacity  of  vitality  to 
the  circumstances  under  which  they  were  written,  and  the  events 
by  which  they  were  suggested. 

The  long  poem  of  Mogg  Megone  was,  in  a  great  measure,  com 
posed  in  early  life ;  and  it  is  scarcely  necessa  ry  to  say  that  its  sub 
ject  is  not  such  as  the  writer  would  have  chosen  at  any  subsequent 
period. 

J.  G.  W. 

\MESBURY,  l^th  3<*  mo.   1867. 


PROEM. 


I  LOVE  the  old  melodious  lays 
Which  softly  melt  the  ages  through, 

The  songs  of  Spenser's  golden  days, 

Arcadian  Sidney's  silvery  phrase, 
Sprinkling  our  noon  of  time  with  freshest  morning  dew. 

Yet,  vainly  in  my  quiet  hours 
To  breathe  their  marvellous  notes  I  try; 

I  feel  them,  as  the  leaves  and  flowers 

In  silence  feel  the  dewy  showers, 
And  drink  with  glad  still  lips  the  blessing  of  the  sky. 

The  rigor  of  a  frozen  clime, 
The  harshness  of  an  untaught  ear, 

The  jarring  words  of  one  whose  rhyme 

Beat  often  Labor's  hurried  time, 
Or  Duty's  rugged  march  through  storm  and  strife,  are  here. 

Of  mystic  beauty,  dreamy  grace, 
No  rounded  art  the  lack  supplies ; 

Unskilled  the  subtle  lines  to  trace, 

Or  softer  shades  of  Nature's  face, 
I  view  her  common  forms  with  unanointed  eyes. 

•    Nor  mine  the  seer-like  power  to  show 
The  secrets  of  the  heart  and  mind; 

To  drop  the  plummet-line  below 

Our  common  world  of  joy  and  woe, 
A  more  intense  despair  or  brighter  hope  to  find. 

Yet  here  at  least  an  earnest  sense 
Of  human  right  and  weal  is  shown ; 

A  hate  of  tyranny  intense, 

And  hearty  in  its  vehemence, 
As  if  my  brother's  pain  and  sorrow  were  my  own. 

O  Freedom !  if  to  me  belong 
Nor  mighty  Milton's  gift  divine, 

Nor  Marvell's  wit  and  graceful  song, 

Still  with  a  love  as  deep  and  strong 
As  theirs,  I  lay,  like  them,  my  best  gifts  on  thy  shrine ! 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

MOGG  MEGONE,  1835     ....  i 

THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK,  1848  20 

LEGENDARY,  1846: — 

The   Merrimack      ....  34 

The    Norsemen      .      .      .      .  35 

Cassandra  Southwick       .     .  37 

Funeral  Tree  of  the  Sokokis  41 

St.   John 42 

Pentucket 44 

The  Familist's  Hymn  ...  45 

The  Fountain 46 

The  Exiles 47 

The     New     Wife     and     the 

Old 5i 

VOICES  OF  FREEDOM,  FROM  1833  TO 
1848:— 

Toussaint  L'Ouverture     .     .  53 

The  Slave-ships      ....  56 

Stanzas 57 

The  Yankee  Girl    ....  59 

To  W.  L.  G 60 

Song  of  the  Free  .     .     .      .  61 

The  Hunters  of  Men       .     .  61 

Clerical  Oppressors     ...  63 

The  Christian  Slave     ...  64 

Stanzas  for  the  Times     .      .  65 


PAGE 

Lines    on    the     Anti-slavery 
Message  of  Governor  Rit- 

ner,    1836        66 

The  Pastoral  Letter     ...     68 
Lines  for  Anti-slavery  Meet 
ing,  1834 69 

Lines  for  Third  Anniversary 
of     British    Emancipation, 

1837 70 

Lines   on   British   Emancipa 
tion,   1846       .     .     ,     ..     .     71 
The  Farewell  of  a  Virginia 

Slave   Mother      ....     72 
The  Moral  Warfare     ...     73 
The  World's   Convention  of 
the  Friends  of  Emancipa 
tion,   1840 73 

New  Hampshire  ....  76 
The  New  Year  ....  77 
Massachusetts  to  Virginia  .  79 

The  Relic 82 

The  Branded  Hand     ...     83 

Texas 84 

To  Faneuil  Hall     ....     86 
To   Massachusetts       ...     86 
The  Pine-tree         .     .     .     .     87 
Lines  on  a  Visit  to  Washing 
ton,  1845 88 

Lines    to    a    Young    Clerical 
Friend        9O 


in 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Yorktown 90 

Lines  written  in  a  Friend's 

Book 92 

Paean 94 

To  the  Memory  of  Thomas 

Shipley 95 

To  a  Southern  Statesman  .  96 
Lines   on    Pinckney's    Reso 
lutions       and       Calhoun's 

Bill .  97 

The  Curse  of  the  Charter- 
breakers         .     .     .     .     .  98 
The  Slaves  of  Martinique    .  99 
The   Crisis 102 

Miscellaneous. 

The  Knight  of  St.  John     .  104 

The  Holy  Land     ....  105 

Palestine 105 

Ezekiel,       chapter       xxxiii. 

30-33         107 

The  Wife  of  Manoah  to  her 

Husband 108 

The  Cities  of  the  Plain     .  no 

The  Crucifixion     .      .      .      .  in 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem  .      .  in 
Hymns  from  the  French  of 

Lamartine 113 

The  Female  Martyr       .      .  115 

The  Frost   Spirit       .      .      .  116 

The  Vaudois  Teacher     .     .  117 

The  Call  of  the  Christian    .  118 

My  Soul  and  I      .     .     .     .  118 

To  a  Friend 121 

The  Angel  of  Patience    .     .  122 

Follen     .......  123 

To  the  Reformers  of  Eng 
land     124 

The   Quaker  of  the   Olden 

Time 125 

The    Reformer  126 


PAGE 

The  Prisoner  for  Debt    .     .127 
Lines  on  Clergymen's  Views 

of   the    Gallows      . ".    ;     .  128 

The  Human  Sacrifice     .     .  130 

Randolph  of  Roanoke     .     .  133 

Democracy 134 

To    Ronge 135 

Chalkley  Hall       .     .     .     .  136 

To  J.  P 137 

The  Cypress-tree  of  Ceylon  138 

A  Dream  of  Summer     .     .  139 

To    -            ......  139 

Leggett's    Monument      .     .  141 


SONGS    OF    LABOR,    AND    OTHER 
POEMS,  1850: — 


Dedication 
The    Ship-builders 
The    Shoemakers 
The  Drovers     .      . 
The  Fishermen     . 
The  Huskers    . 
The  Corn-song     . 
The  Lumbermen  . 


142 

143 
144 

145 
146 

147 
149 
149 


Miscellaneous. 

The  Angels  of  Buena  Vista,  151 

Forgiveness 153 

Barclay  of  Ury     .      .      .      .  153 
What  the  Voice  Said     .      .155 

To   Delaware         ....  156 

Worship 156 

The  Demon  of  the  Study     .  158 

The  Pumpkin 160 

Extract  from  "  A  New  Eng 
land  Legend "     .     .      .     .  161 
Hampton  Beach     ....  162 
Lines  on  the  Death  of  Silas 

Wright 163 

Lines  accompanying  Manu 
scripts       164 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Reward 165 

Raphael 165 

Lucy  Hooper 167 

Charming 168 

To  the  Memory  of  Charles 

B.  Storrs 169 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  S.  O. 

Torrey 170 

A  Lament 171 

Daniel  Wheeler  ....  172 

Daniel  Neall 174 

To  my  Friend  on  the  Death 

of  his  Sister  .  .  .  .  175 

Gone 175 

The  Lake-side  ....  176 

The  Hill-top 177 

On  receiving  an  Eagle's 

Quill  from  Lake  Superior  178 

Memories 179 

The  Legend  of  St.  Mark  .  180 

The  Well  of  Loch  Maree  .  181 

To  my  Sister 182 

Autumn  Thoughts  .  .  .  182 

Calef  in  Boston  ....  183 

To  Pius  IX 183 

Elliott 184 

Ichabod! 185 

The  Christian  Tourists  .  .  186 

The  Men  of  Old  ...  187 
The  Peace  Convention  at 

Brussels 188 

The  Wish  of  To-day  .  .  190 

Our  State 190 

Airs  Well 191 

Seed-time  and  Harvest  .  .  191 

To  A.  K.  .  .  191 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS,  AND 
OTHER  POEMS,  1852: — 

The  Chapel  of  the  Hermits    193 


PAGE 
Miscellaneous. 

Questions  of  Life     .     .     .  199 

The  Prisoners  of  Naples     .  201 

Moloch  in  State  Street    .     .  202 

The  Peace  of  Europe     .     .  203 

Wordsworth 204 

To  ,  after  a  Day's  Ex 
cursion     204 

In  Peace 205 

Benedicite 206 

Pictures 206 

Derne 207 

Astraea 209 

Invocation        209 

The  Cross 210 

Eva 210 

To  Fredrika  Bremer     .     .211 

April 211 

Stanzas  for  the  Times,  1850  212 

A   Sabbath   Scene     .     .     .  213 

Remembrance 2I4 

The  Poor  Voter  on  Election 

Day 2I5 

Trust 2I5 

Kathleen 2I5 

First-day  Thoughts     .         .  217 

Kossuth 2l8 

To  my  Old  Schoolmaster    .  218 

THE    PANORAMA,    AND    OTHER 
POEMS,  1856: — 

The  Panorama     ....  221 
Miscellaneous. 

Summer  by  the  Lakeside     .  231 

The  Hermit  of  the  Thebaid,  233 

Burns 235 

William  Forster   ....  236 

Rantoul 237 

The  Dream  of  Pio  Nono    .  239 

Tauler    .                           .     .  240 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Lines  suggested  by  reading 

a  State  Paper     ....  242 

The   Voices 242 

The  Hero 244 

My  Dream       ......  245 

The  Barefoot  Boy     .     .     .  246 

Flowers  in  Winter     .      .      .  247 

The  Rendition       ....  248 

Lines — the    Fugitive     Slave 

Act 249 

The    Fruit-gift      ....  249 

A  Memory 250 

To  C  S 251 

The  Kansas  Emigrants  .      .251 
Song  of  Slaves  in  the  Des 
ert      ...     .     .     .     .      .  252 

Lines    to    Friends    arrested 

by  Slave  Power     .     .      .  252 

The  New  Exodus     .     .     .  253 

The  Haschish       ....  254 

BALLADS  : — 

Mary  Garvin 255 

Maud  Muller 258 

The  Ranger 260 

LATER  POEMS,  1856-1857: — 

The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn  262 

The  Mayflowers    ....  266 

Burial  of  Barbour     .     .     .  267 

To    Pennsylvania        .     .      .  268 

The  Pass  of  the  Sierra  .      .  268 

The  Conquest  of  Finland     .  269 

A  Lay  of  Old  Time     .     .  270 

What  of  the  Day?     .     .     .  270 

The  First  Flowers     .     .     .  271 

My  Namesake       ....  272 

HOME  BALLADS,  1860:— 

The  Witch's  Daughter  .     .  275 


PAGE 

The  Garrison  of  Cape  Ann  279 
The  Prophecy  of  Samuel 

Sewall 281 

Skipper  Ireson's  Ride  .  .  284 

Telling  the  Bees  ....  285 

The  Sycamores  ....  286 
The  Double-headed  Snake 

of  Newbury  ....  288 
The  Swan  Song  of  Parson 

Avery 290 

The  Truce  of  Piscataqua  .  291 

My  Playmate  ....  294 

POEMS  AND  LYRICS  : — 

The  Shadow  and  the  Light  295 

The  Gift  of  Tritemius     .    ..  297 

The  Eve  of  Election     .     .  298 

The  Over-heart  ....  299 
In  Remembrance  of  Joseph 

Sturge 300 

Trinitas 302 

The  Old  Burying-ground     .  303 

The  Pipes  at  Lucknow    .     .  304 

My  Psalm        305 

Le  Marais  du  Cygne     .     .  306 

"  The  Rock  "  in  El  Ghor     .  307 

On  a  Prayer-book     .     .     .  308 

To  J.  T.  F 310 

The   Palm-tree      .     .     .     .310 
Lines  for  the  Burns  Celebra 
tion,    1859      •      •     •     •     •  311 
The  Red  River  Voyageur  .  312 

Kenoza  Lake 312 

To  G.  B.  C 313 

The    Sisters 314 

Lines  for  Agricultural  Ex 
hibition     314 

The   Preacher       ....  315 

The   Quaker  Alumni      .     .  321 

Brown  of  Ossawatomie      .  325 


CONTENTS. 


vii 


PAGE 

PAGE 

From  Perugia       .... 

326 

Address     on     Opening     of 

For  an  Autumn  Festival 

327 

Pennsylvania  Hall,  1838   . 

346 

The  Response       .... 

349 

!ARLY  AND  UNCOLLECTED  POEMS 

:— 

Stanzas  for  the  Times,  1844 

351 

The  Exile's  Departure    .     . 

329 

Miscellaneous. 

The    Deity        

329 

In  War  Time       .     .     .     . 

353 

To  the  "Rustic  Bard" 

330 

Amy  Wentworth  .... 

354 

The  Album      

33i 

The   Countess             .     .     . 

355 

Mount  Agiochook 

332 

The  Wreck  of  Rivermouth  . 

358 

Metacom      

333 

The  Brother  of  Mercy 

361 

The  Fratricide       .... 

335 

At  Port  Royal     .     .     .     . 

362 

Eternity      .                ... 

-3-37 

Astraea  at  the  Capitol     .     . 

364 

Isabella  of  Austria     .     .     . 

oo/ 

338 

The  Battle  Autumn  of  1862 

365 

Stanzas  

140 

The  Proclamation     .     .     . 

365 

The  Missionary     .... 

OT^ 

34i 

Barbara    Frietchie      .     .     . 

366 

Massachusetts       .     .     .     . 

345 

Andrew  Rykman's  Prayer   . 

367 

POEMS  OF  WHITTIER 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


PART   I. 

Who  stands  on  that  cliff,  like  a  figure 

of  stone, 
Unmoving  and  tall  in  the  light  of 

the  sky, 

Where   the   spray   of  the   cataract 
sparkles  on  high, 

Lonely  and  sternly,  save  Mogg  Me- 
gone? 

Close  to  the  verge  of  the  rock  is  he, 
While    beneath    him    the    Saco    its 
work  is  doing, 

Hurrying  down  to  its  grave,  the  sea, 
And    slow   through     the    rock    its 
pathway  hewing ! 

Far  down,  through   the  mist  of  the 
falling  river, 

Which  rises  up  like  an  incense  ever, 

The  splintered  points  of  the  crags  are 
seen, 

With   water  howling   and  vexed  be 
tween, 

While  the  scooping  whirl  of  the  pool 
beneath 

Seems  on  open  throat,  with  its  gran 
ite  teeth! 


But    Mogg   Megone   never    trembled 

yet 

Wherever  his  eye  or  his  foot  was  set. 
He    is    watchful:    each    form    in    the 

moonlight  dim, 
Of  rock  or  of  tree,  is  seen  of  him: 


He  listens;  each  sound  from  afar  is 
caught, 

The  faintest  shiver  pf  leaf  and  limb: 

But  he  sees  not  the  waters,  which 
foam  and  fret, 

Whose  moonlit  spray  has  his  mocca 
sin  wet, — 

And  the  roar "  of  their  rushing,  he 
hears  it  not. 


The    moonlight,   through    the    open 

bough 
Of  the  gnarl'd  beech,  whose  naked 

root 

Coils  like  a  serpent  at  his  foot, 
Falls,    checkered,    on     the     Indian's 

brow. 

His  head  is  bare,  save  only  where 
Waves  in  the  wind  one  lock  of  hair, 

Reserved  for  him,  whoe'er  he  be, 
More  mighty  than  Megone  in  strife, 
When,  breast  to  breast  and  knee  to 

knee, 

Above  the  fallen  warrior's  life 
Gleams,  quick  and  keen,  the  scalping- 
knife. 


Megone  hath  his  knife   and  hatchet 

and  gun, 
And  his  gaudy  and  tasselled  blanket 

on: 
His  knife  hath  a   handle  with  gold 

inlaid, 


2 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


And    magic    words    on    its    polished 

blade, — 
T  was  the  gift  of  Castine  to  Mogg 

Megone, 

For  a  scalp  or  twain  from  the  Yen- 
gees  torn: 
His  gun  was  the  gift  of  the  Tarran- 

tine, 
A.nd    Modocawando's    wives    had 

strung 
The  brass  and  the  beads,  which  tinkle 

and  shine 
On   the  polished  breech,  and  broad 

bright  line 
Of  beaded  wampum  around  it  hung. 

a 

What  seeks  Megone?     His  foes  are 

t       near,— 

f  Gray  Jocelyn's  eye  is  never  sleeping, 

And  the  garrison  lights  are  burning 

clear, 

Where    Phillips'   men   their   watch 
are  keeping. 

Let  him  hie  him  away  through  the 

dank  river  fog, 

Never  rustling  the  boughs  nor  dis 
placing  the  rocks, 

For  the  eyes  and  the  ears  which  are 

watching  for  Mogg, 
Are  keener  than  those  of  the  wolf 
or  the  fox. 

He  starts, — there's  a  rustle  among  the 

leaves : 
Another, — the   click  of  his  gun  is 

heard ! 

A  footstep — is  it  the  step  of  Cleaves, 
With  Indian  blood  on  his  English 

sword? 
Steals  Harmon  down  from  the  sands 

of  York, 

With  hand  of  iron  and  foot  of  cork? 
Has     Scamman,     versed     in     Indian 

wile, 
For    vengeance    left    his    vine-hung 

isle? 

Hark!  at  that  whistle,  soft  and  low, 
How  lights  the  eye  of  Mogg  Me 
gone! 

A  smile  gleams  o'er  his  dusky  brow, — 
"  Boon     welcome,     Johnny     Bony- 

thon !" 


Out  steps,  with  cautious  foot  and  slow, 
And  quick,  keen  glances  to  and  fro, 

The  hunted  outlaw,  Bonython ! 
A  low,  lean,  swarthy  man  is  he, 
With  blanket-garb  and  buskined  knee, 
And  naught  of  English  fashion  on; 
For  he  hates  the  race  from  whence 

he  sprung, 

And  he  couches  his  words  in  the  In 
dian  tongue. 

"  Hush, — let   the    Sachem's   voice   be 

weak; 

The  water-rat  shall  hear  him  speak, — 
The   owl   shall   whoop   in   the   white 

man's  ear, 
That  Mogg  Megone,  with  his  scalps, 

is  here !" 
He   pauses,  —  dark,   over   cheek   and 

brow, 

A  flush,  as  of  shame,  is  stealing  now : 
"  Sachem!"  he  says,  "  let  me  have  the 

land, 
Which    stretches    away    upon    either 

hand, 

As  far  about  as  my  feet  can  stray 
In  the  half  of  a  gentle  summer's  day, 
From  the  leaping  brook  to  the  Saco 

river, — 
And  the   fair-haired   girl,   thou  hast 

sought  of  me, 
Shall   sit   in   the    Sachem's   wigwam, 

and  be 

The   wife   of    Mogg    Megone    for 
ever." 

There's  a  sudden  light  in  the  Indian's 

glance, 

A  moment's  trace  of  powerful  feel 
ing, 

Of  love  or  triumph,  or  both  perchance, 
Over  his  proud,  calm  features  steal 
ing. 

"The  words   of  my   father  are  very 
good; 

He  shall  have  the  land,  and  water, 
and  wood; 

And  he  who  harms  the  Sagamore  John 

Shall  feel  the  knife  of  Mogg  Megone ; 

But  the   fawn   of  the   Yengees   shall 
sleep  on  my  breast, 

And   the   bird   of   the   clearing    shall 
sing  in  my  nest." 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


3 


"  But     father !  "—and     the     Indian's 

hand 
Falls  gently  on    the  white    man's 

arm, 

And  with  a  smile  as  shrewdly  bland 
As   the   deep    voice    is     slow    and 

calm,— 
"Where  is  my  father's  singing-bird, — 

The  sunny  eye,  and  sunset  hair? 
I  know  I  have  my  father's  word, 
And   that   his    word   is   good   and 

fair ; 

But  will  my  father  tell  me  where 
Megone   shall   go   and   look   for   his 

bride?— 

For  he  sees  her  not  by  her  father's 
side." 

The  dark,  stern  eye  of  Bonython 
Flashes  over  the  features  of  Mogg 

Megone, 
In   one    of    those    glances     which 

search  within; 
But   the   stolid   calm   of   the    Indian 

alone 

Remains  where  the  trace  of  emo 
tion  has  been. 
"  Does  the  Sachem  doubt  ?     Let  him 

go  with  me, 

And  the  eyes  of  the  Sachem  his  bride 
shall  see." 

Cautious  and  slow,  with  pauses  oft, 
And  watchful  eyes  and  whispers  soft, 
The   twain  are  stealing  through   the 

wood, 

Leaving  the  downward-rushing  flood, 
Whose  deep  and  solemn  roar  behind 
Grows  fainter  on  the  evening  wind. 

Hark!— is  that  the  angry  howl 

Of  the  wolf,  the  hills  among? — 
Or  the  hooting  of  the  owl, 

On  his  leafy  cradle  swung? — 
Quickly  glancing,  to  and  fro, 
Listening  to  each  sound  they  go 
Round  the  columns  of  the  pine, 

Indistinct,   in    shadow,    seeming 
Like  some  old  and  pillared  shrine; 
With  the  soft  and  white  moonshine, 
Round  the  foliage-tracery  shed 
Of  each  column's  branching  head, 

For  its  lamps  of  worship  gleaming! 
And  the  sounds  awakened  there, 


In  the  pine-leaves  fine  and  small, 
Soft  and  sweetly  musical, 
By  the  fingers  of  the  air, 
For  the  anthem's  dying  fall 
Lingering  round  some  temple's  wall! 
Niche  and  cornice  round  and  round 
Wailing  like  the  ghost  of  sound! 
Is  not  Nature's  worship  thus, 

Ceaseless    ever,   going   on? 
Hath  it  not  a  voice  for  us 

In  the  thunder,  or  the  tone 
Of  the  leaf-harp  faint  and  small, 
Speaking  to  the  unsealed  ear 
Words  of  blended  love  and  fear, 
Of  the  mighty  Soul  of  all? 

Naught  had  the  twain  of  thoughts  like 

these 
As  they  wound  along    through    the 

crowded  trees, 
Where  never  had  rung  the  axeman's 

stroke 

On  the  gnarled  trunk  of  the  rough- 
barked  oak ; — 

Climbing  the  dead  tree's  mossy  log, 
Breaking  the  mesh  of  the  bramble 

fine, 

Turning  aside  the  wild  grape  vine, 
And  lightly  crossing  the  quaking  bog 
Whose  surface  shakes  at  the  leap  of 

the  frog, 
And  out  of  whose  pools  the  ghostly 

fog 
Creeps  into  the  chill  moonshine! 

Yet,  even  that  Indian's  ear  had  heard 
The  preaching  of  the  Holy  Word; 
Sanchekantacket's  isle  of  sand 
Was  once  his  father's  hunting  land, 
Where  zealous  Hiacoomes  stood, — 
The  wild  apostle  of  the  wood, 
Shook  from  his  soul  the  fear  of  harm, 
And     trampled     on     the     Powwaw's 

charm ; 

Until  the  wizard's  curses  hung 
Suspended  on  his  palsying  tongue, 
And    the    fierce    warrior,    grim    and 

tall, 
Trembled  before  the  forest  Paul! 

A  cottage  hidden  in  the  wood, — 
Red   through   its   seams   a  light   is 
glowing, 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


On   rock  and  bough  and  tree-trunk 

rude, 

A  narrow  lustre  throwing. 
"Who's  there?"  a  clear,  firm  voice 

demands ; 

"Hold,    Ruth— 'tis     I,    the    Saga 
more  !  " 
Quick,  at  the  summons,  hasty  hands 

Unclose  the  bolted  door; 
And  on  the  outlaw's  daughter  shine 
The  flashes  of  the  kindled  pine. 

Tall  and  erect  the  maiden  stands, 
Like   some  young  priestess  of  the 

wood, 

The  freeborn  child  of  Solitude, 
And  bearing  still  the  wild  and  rude, 

Yet  noble  trace  of  Nature's  hands. 

Her  dark  brown  cheek  has  caught  its 
stain 

More  from  the  sunshine  than  the  rain  ; 

Yet,  where  her  long  fair  hair  is  part 
ing, 

A  pure  white  brow  into  light  is  start 
ing; 

And,  where  the  folds  of  her  blanket 
sever, 

Are  a  neck  and  bosom  as  white  as 
ever 

The  foam-wreaths  rise  on  the  leaping 
river. 

But  in  the  convulsive  quiver  and  grip 

Of  the  muscles  around  her  bloodless 

lip,    _ 

There  is  something  painful  and  sad 
to  see; 

And    her    eye    has    a    glance    more 
sternly  wild 

Than  ^ven  that  of  a  forest  child 
In  its   fearless  and  untamed  free 
dom  should  be. 

Yet,  seldom  in  hall  or  court  are  seen 
So  queenly  a  form  and   so  noble  a 

mien, 
As  freely  and  smiling  she  welcomes 

them  there, — 

Her  outlawed  sire  and  Mogg  Megone: 
"  Pray,  father,  how  does  thy  hunt 
ing  fare? 
And,  Sachem,  say, — does  Scamman 
wear, 


In  spite  of  thy  promise,  a  scalp  of  his 

own  ?  " 

Hurried  and  light  is  the  maiden's  tone ; 

But  a  fearful  meaning  lurks  within 

Her  glance,  as  it  questions  the  eye  of 

Megone, — 
An  awful  meaning    of    guilt    and 

sin ! — 
The  Indian  hath  opened  his  blanket, 

and  there 
Hangs    a    human    scalp    by   its    long 

damp  hair ! 

With     hand     upraised,     with     quick- 
drawn  breath, 

She  meets  that  ghastly  sign  of  death. 
In  one  long,  glassy,  spectral  stare 
The  enlarging  eye  is  fastened  there, 
As  if  that  mesh  of  pale  brown  hair 

Had  power,  to  change  at  sight  alone, 
Even  as  the  fearful  locks  which  wound 
Medusa's  fatal  forehead  round, 

The  gazer  into  stone. 
With  such  a  look  Herodias  read 
The  features  of  the  bleeding  head, 
So  looked  the  mad  Moor  on  his  dead, 
Or  the  young  Cenci  as  she  stood, 
O'er-dabbled  with  a  father's  blood ! 

Look !— feeling     melts     that     frozen 

glance, 

It  moves  that  marble  countenance, 
As  if  at  once  within  her  strove 
Pity  with  shame,  and  hate  with  love. 
The  Past  recalls  its  joy  and  pain, 
Old  memories  rise  before  her  brain, — 
The  lips  which  love's  embraces  met, 
The  hand  her  tears  of  parting  wet, 
The  voice  whose  pleading  tones  be 
guiled 

The  pleased  ear  of  the  forest-child, — 
And  tears  she  may  no  more  repress 
Reveal  her  lingering  tenderness. 

O,  woman  wronged,  can  cherish  hate 
More  deep  and  dark  than  manhood 

may; 
But  when  the  mockery  of  Fate 

Hath  left  Revenge  its  chosen  way, 
And  the  fell  curse,  which  years  have 
nursed, 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


Full  on  the  spoiler's  head  hath  burst,— 

When  all  her  wrong,  and  shame,  and 
pain, 

Burns     fiercely    on    his    heart    and 
brain, — 

Still  lingers  something  of  the  spell 
Which  bound  her    to   the  traitor's 
bosom, — 

Still,  midst  the  vengeful  fires  of  hell, 
Some  flowers  of  old  affection  blos 
som. 

John    Bonython's   eyebrows   together 

are  drawn 
With   a   fierce   expression   of   wrath 

and  scorn, — 

He  hoarsely  whispers,  "Ruth,  beware  ! 
Is  this  the  time  to  be  playing  the 

fool,— 
Crying  over  a  paltry  lock  of  hair, 

Like  a  love-sick  girl  at  school? — 
Curse  on  it! — an  Indian  can  see  and 

hear: 
Away, — and     prepare     our     evening 

cheer !  " 


How  keenly  the  Indian  is  watching 

now 
Her    tearful    eye    and    her    varying 

brow, — 
With  a  serpent  eye,  which  kindles 

and  burns, 

Like  a  fiery  star  in  the  upper  air: 

On  sire  and  daughter  his  fierce  glance 

turns: — 
"  Has  my  old  white  father  a  scalp 

to  spare? 
For  his  young  one  loves  the  pale 

brown  hair 
Of  the  scalp  of  an  English  dog,  far 

more 
Than  Mogg  Megone,  or  his  wigwam 

floor: 
Go, — Mogg  is   wise:   he  will  keep 

his  land, — 
And  Sagamore  John,  when  he  feels 

with  his  hand, 
Shall  miss   his   scalp   where   it  grew 
before." 


The  moment's  gust  of  grief  is  gone, — 


The  lip  is  clenched, — the  tears  are 

still,— 

od  pity  thee,  Ruth  Bonython! 
With  what  a  strength  of  will 
Are  nature's^  feelings  in  thy  breast, 
As  with  an  iron  hand,  repressed ! 
And  how,  upon  that  nameless  woe, 
3uick  as  the  pulse  can  come  and  go, 
While  shakes  the  unsteadfast  knee, 

and  yet 

The  bosom  heaves, — the  eye  is  wet, — 
Has  thy  dark  spirit  power  to  stay 
The  heart's  wild  current  on  its  way? 
And  whence  that  baleful  strength 

of  guile, 

Which  over  that  still  working  brow 
And  tearful  eye  and  cheek,  can  throw 

The  mockery  of  a  smile? 
Warned   by   her    father's   blackening 

frown, 

With  one  strong  effort  crushing  down 

Grief,  hate,  remorse,  she  meets  again 

The  savage  murderer's  sullen  gaze, 

And  scarcely  look  or  tone  betrays 

How    the    heart    strives    beneath   its 

chain. 


"  Is  the  Sachem  angry,— angry  with 

Ruth, 
Because  she  cries  with  an  ache  in  her 

tooth, 
Which  would  make  a  Sagamore  jump 

and  cry, 

And  look  about  with  a  woman's  eye? 
No,— Ruth  will  sit  in  the  Sachem's 

door 
And  braid  the  mats  for  his  wigwam 

floor. 

And  broil  his  fish  and  tender  fawn, 
And  weave  his  wampum,  and  grind 

his  corn, — 
For  she  loves  the  brave  and  the  wise, 

and  none 

Are  braver  and  wiser  than  Mogg  Me 
gone!" 

The  Indian's  brow  is  clear  once  more: 
With  grave,  calm    face,    and   half- 
shut  eye, 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


He  sits  upon  the  wigwam  floor, 
And  watches  Ruth  go  by, 

Intent  upon  her  household  care; 
And  ever  and  anon,  the  while, 

Or  on  the  maiden,  or  her  fare, 

Which    smokes    in    grateful    promise 

there, 
Bestows  his  quiet  smile. 


Ah,    Mogg    Megone! — what    dreams 

are  thine, 
But  those  which  love's  own  fancies 

dress, — 

The  sum  of  Indian  happiness ! — 
A  wigwam,  where  the  warm  sunshine 
Looks  in  among  the  groves  of  pine, — 
A   stream,    where,    round    thy    light 

canoe, 

The  trout  and  salmon  dart  in  view, 
And  the  fair  girl  before  thee  now, 
Spreading  thy  mat  with  hand  of  snow, 
Or  plying,  in  the  dews  of  morn, 
Her  hoe  amidst  thy  patch  of  corn, 
Or  offering  up,  at  eve,  to  thee, 
Thy  birchen  dish  of  hominy! 


From  the  rude  board  of  Bonython, 
Venison  and  suckatash  have  gone, — 
For  long  these  dwellers  of  the  wood 
Have  felt  the  gnawing  want  of  food. 
But  untasted  of   Ruth   is   the  frugal 

cheer, — 

With  head  averted,  yet  ready  ear, 
She  stands  by  the  side  of  her  austere 

sire, 

Feeding,  at  times,  the  unequal  fire 
With  _  the  yellow  knots  of  the  pitch- 
pine  tree, 
Whose  flaring  light,   as   they  kindle, 

falls 
On  the  cottage-roof,  and  its  black  log 

walls, 
And  over  its  inmates  three. 


From  Sagamore  Bonython's  hunting 

flask 
The  fire-water  burns  at  the  lip  of 

Megone: 
"Will    the    Sachem    hear    what    his 

father  shall  ask? 


Will  he  make  his  mark,  that  it  may 

be  known, 
On   the   speaking-leaf,   that   he   gives 

the  land, 
From    the    Sachem's    own,    to     his 

father's  hand?" 
The  fire-water  shines  in  the  Indian's 

eyes, 
As  he  rises,  the  white  mans  bidding 

to  do: 
"  Wuttamuttata — weekan !      Mogg    is 

wise, — 
For  the  water  he  drinks  is  strong 

and  new, — 
Mogg's  heart  is  great ! — will  he  shut 

his  hand, 
When    his    father    asks    for    a    little 

land?"— 
With  unsteady  fingers,  the  Indian  has 

drawn 
On  the  parchment  the  shape  of  a 

hunter's  bow, 

"  Boon     water, — boon    water, — Saga 
more  John ! 
Wuttamuttata, — weekan  !  our  hearts 

will  grow !  " 
He    drinks    yet    deeper, — he    mutters 

low, — 
He    reels   on    his   bear-skin    to    and 

fro,— 
His    head    falls    down   on   his    naked 

breast, — 
He  struggles,  and  sinks  to  a  drunken 

rest. 


"  Humph— drunk   as  a  beast !  "—and 

Bonython's  brow 
Is     darker     than     ever     with     evil 

thought — • 
"The   fool   has   signed  his   warrant; 

but  how 
And     when     shall     the     deed     be 

wrought  ? 
Speak,  Ruth!  why,  what  the  devil  is 

there, 

To  fix  thy  gaze  in  that  empty  air?— 
Speak,  Ruth  !  by  my  soul,  if  I  thought 

that  tear, 

Which   shames  thyself  and  our  pur 
pose   here, 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


Were  shed  for  that  cursed  and  pale- 
faced  dog, 

Whose   green   scalp   hangs   from   the 

belt  of  Mogg, 

And  whose  beastly   soul  is  in  Sa 
tan's  keeping, — 

This — this  !  " — and  he  dashes  his  hand 
upon 

The  rattling  stock  of  his  loaded  gun, — 
"  Should  send  thee  with  him  to  do 
thy  weeping !  " 

"  Father !  " — the  eye  of  Bonython 
Sinks  at  that  low,  sepulchral  tone, 
Hollow  and  deep,  as  it  were  spoken 
By  the  unmoving  tongue  of  death, — 
Or  from  some  statue's  lips  had  bro 
ken, — 

A  sound  without  a   breath ! 
"  Father ! — my  life  I  value  less 
Than  yonder  fool  his  gaudy  dress; 
And  how  it  ends  it  matters  not, 
By  heart-break  or  by  rifle-shot ; 
But     spare     awhile     the     scoff     and 

threat,— 
Our  business  is  not  finished  yet." 


"  True,  true,  my  girl, — I  only  meant 
To  draw  up  again  the  bow  unbent, 
Harm  thee,  my  Ruth !   I  only  sought 
To  frighten  off  thy  gloomy  thought ; — 
Come, — let's  be  friends  !  "     He  seeks 

to  clasp 
His   daughter's   cold,    damp   hand    in 

his. 

Ruth  startles  from  her  father's  grasp, 
As  if  each  nerve  and  muscle  felt, 
Instinctively,  the  touch   of  guilt, 
Through  all  their  subtle  sympathies. 

He  points  her  to  the  sleeping  Mogg: 
"What  shall  be  done  with  yonder  dog? 
Scamman  is  dead,  and  revenge  is 

thine, — 
The  deed  is   signed  and  the  land  is 

mine ; 
And  this  drunken  fool  is  of  use  no 

more, 
Save  as  thy  hopeful  bridegroom,  and 

sooth, 


'Twere  Christian  mercy  to  finish  him, 

Ruth, 
Now,  while  he  lies  like  a  beast  on  our 

floor, — 

If  not  for  thine,  at  least  for  his  sake, 
Rather  than  let  the  poor  dog  awake 
To  drain  my  flask,  and  claim  as  his 

bride 
Such   a   forest    devil   to    run   by   his 

side, — 
Such  a  Wetuomanit  as  thou  wouldst 

make ! " 


He  laughs  at  his  jest.     Hush — what 

is  there  ?— 
The  sleeping  Indian  is  striving  to 

rise, 
With    his    knife   in   his    hand,   and 

glaring  eyes  !— 

"  Wagh  ! — Mogg  will  have  the  pale 
face's  hair, 

For  his  knife  is  sharp,  and  his  fin 
gers  can  help 

The  hair  to  pull  and  the  skin  to  peel, — 
Let  him  cry  like  a  woman  and  twist 

like  an  eel, 
The  great  Captain  Scamman  must 

loose  his  scalp! 
And   Ruth,   when    she    sees    it,    shall 

dance  with  Mogg." 
His  eyes  are  fixed, — but  his  lips  draw 

in, — 
With    a    low,    hoarse     chuckle,    and 

fiendish  grin, — • 

And  he  sinks  again,  like  a  senseless 
log. 


Ruth  does  not  speak, — she  does  not 
stir; 

But  she  gazes  down  on  the  murderer, 

Whose  broken  and  dreamful  slumbers 
tell 

Too  much  for  her  ear  of  that  deed  of 
hell. 

She  sees  the  knife,  with  its  slaughter 
red, 

And  the  dark  fingers  clenching  the 
bear-skin  bed ! 

What  thoughts  of  horror  and  mad 
ness  whirl 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


Through   the   burning  brain  of  that 
fallen  girl! 

John  Bonython  lifts  his  gun  to  his 

eye, 
Its  muzzle  is  close  to  the  Indian's 

ear, — 
But  he  drops  it  again.     "  Some  one 

may  be  nigh, 
And    I    would    not   that   even    the 

wolves  should  hear." 
He  draws  his  knife  from  its  deer-skin 

belt,— 
Its   edge   with  his    fingers  is   slowly 

felt  ;— 
Kneeling  down  on  one  knee,  by  the 

Indian's  side, 
From  his  throat  he  opens  the  blanket 

wide; 

And  twice  or  thrice  he  feebly  essays 
A  trembling  hand  with  the  knife  to 

raise. 

"I    cannot,"— he    mutters,— "  did    he 

not  save 

My  life  from  a  cold  and  wintry  grave, 
When  the  storm  came  down  from 

Agioochook, 
And  the  north-wind  howled,  and  the 

tree-tops  shook,— 
And   I   strove,   in  the    drifts   of  the 

rushing  snow, 
Till  my  knees  grew  weak  and  I  could 

not  go, 

And  I  felt  the  cold  to  my  vitals  creep, 
And  my  heart's  blood  stiffen,  and 

pulses  sleep! 

I  cannot  strike  him — Ruth  Bonython ! 
In  the  Devil's  name,  tell  me— what's 

to  be  done  ?  " 

O,  vhen  the  soul,  once  pure  and  high, 
Is  stricken  down  from  Virtue's  sky, 
As,  with  the  downcast  star  of  morn, 
Some  gems  of  light  are  with  it 

drawn, — 
And,  through  its  night  of  darkness, 

play 

Some  tokens  of  its  primal  day, — 
Some  lofty  feelings  linger  still, — 


The  strength  to  dare,  the  nerve  to 

meet 

Whatever  threatens  with  defeat 
Its  all-indomitable  will ! — 
But   lacks   the   mean    of    mind    and 

heart, 
Though   eager   for    the    gains    of 

crime, 

Oft,  at  his  chosen  place  and  time, 
The  strength  to  bear  his  evil  part ; 
And,  shielded  by  his  very  Vice, 
Escapes  from  Crime  by  Cowardice. 

Ruth  starts  erect,— with  bloodshot  eye, 
And    lips    drawn   tight   across    her 

teeth, 

Showing   their    locked    embrace    be 
neath, 
In   the   red  fire-light: — "  Mogg  must 

die! 
Give   me   the    knife !  "—The    outlaw 

turns, 
Shuddering     in    heart     and     limb, 

away, — 
But,    fitfully    there,    the    hearth-fire 

burns, 
And  he  sees   on  the  wall  strange 

shadows  play. 

A  lifted  arm,  a  tremulous  blade, 
Are  dimly  pictured  in  light  and  shade, 
Plunging   down    in    the    darkness. 

Hark,  that  cry 

Again — and  again — he  sees  it  fall, — 
That  shadowy  arm  down  the  lighted 

wall! 
He  hears  quick  footsteps — a  shape 

flits  by— 
The    door    on    its     rusted     hinges 

creaks  :— 
"  Ruth— daughter  Ruth  !  "  the  outlaw 

shrieks. 
But    no    sound    comes    back, — he    is 

standing  alone 
By  the  mangled  corse  of  Mogg  Me- 

gone! 


PART  II. 

'T  is  morning  over  Norridgewock, — 
On  tree  and  wigwam,  wave  and  rock. 
Bathed    in    the     autumnal     sunshine, 
stirred 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


At  intervals  by  breeze  and  bird, 
And  wearing  all  the  hues  which  glow 
In    heaven's    own    pure    and    perfect 
bow, 

That  glorious  picture  of  the  air, 
Which     summer's     light-robed    angel 

forms 
On  the  dark  ground  of  fading  storms, 

With   pencil   dipped    in     sunbeams 

there, — 

And,  stretching  out,  on  either  hand, 
O'er  all  that  wide  and  unshorn  land, 
Till,  weary  of  its  gorgeousness, 
The  aching  and  the  dazzled  eye 
Rests   gladdened,   on   the   calm   blue 
sky, — 

Slumbers  the  mighty  wilderness! 
The  oak,  upon  the  windy  hill, 

Its    dark    green    burthen    upward 

heaves — 

The  hemlock  broods  above  its  rill, 
Its  cone-like  foliage  darker  still, 

Against  the  birch's  graceful  stem, 
And  the  rough  walnut-bough  receives 
The  sun  upon  its  crowded  leaves, 

Each  colored  like  a  topaz  gem; 

And  the  tall  maple  wears  with  them 
The  coronal  which  autumn  gives, 

The  brief,  bright  sign  of  ruin  near, 
The  hectic  of  a  dying  year! 

The  hermit  priest,  who  lingers  now 
On  the  Bald  Mountain's  shrubless 

brow, 

The  gray  and  thunder-smitten  pile 
Which  marks  afar  the  Desert  Isle, 

While  gazing  on  the  scene  below, 

May  half  forget  the  dreams  of  home, 

That    nightly    with    his     slumbers 

come, — 

The  tranquil  skies  of  sunny  France, 
The  peasant's  harvest  song  and  dance, 
The  vines  around  the  hillsides 

wreathing 
The   soft  airs    midst    their    clusters 

breathing, 
The   wings    which    dipped,   the    stars 

which  shone 

Within  thy  bosom,  blue  Garonne! 
And    round    the    Abbey's    shadowed 

wall, 


At  morning  spring  and  even-fall. 

Sweet  voices  in  the  still  air  sing 
ing,— 
The  chant  of  many  a  holy  hymn, — 

The   solemn  bell  of  vespers   ring 
ing,— 
And  hallowed  torch-light  falling  dim 

On  pictured  saint  and  seraphim ! 
For  here  beneath  him  lies  unrolled, 
Bathed   deep   in   morning's   flood  of 

gold, 

A  vision  gorgeous  as  the  dream 
Of  the  beatified  may  seem, 

When,  as  his  Church's  legends  say, 
Borne  upward  in  ecstatic  bliss, 

The  rapt  enthusiast  soars  away 
Unto  a  brighter  world  than  this: 
A  mortal's  glimpse  beyond  the  pale, — 
A  moment's  lifting  of  the  veil! 

Far  eastward  o'er  the  lovely  bay, 
Penobscot's   clustered  wigwams   lay; 
And  gently  from  that  Indian  town 
The  verdant  hillside  slopes  adown, 
To  where  the  sparkling  waters  play 

Upon  the  yellow   sands  below; 
And    shooting     round    the    winding 

shores 
Of  narrow  capes,  and  isles  which 

lie 

Slumbering  to  ocean's  lullaby, — 
With  bircherr  boat  and  glancing  oars, 

The  red  men  to  their  fishing  go ; 
While  from  their  planting  ground  is 

borne 

The  treasure  of  the  golden  corn, 
By  laughing  girls,   whose  dark  eyes 

glow 
Wild   through   the   locks   which   o'er 

them  flow. 
The    wrinkled   squaw,    whose   toil    is 

done, 

Sits  on  her  bear-skin  in  the  sun, 
Watching  the  huskers,   with  a  smile 
For  each   full   ear  which    swells  the 

pile ; 

And  the  old  chief,  who  nevermore 
May  bend  the  bow  or  pull  the  oar, 
Smokes  gravely  in  his  wigwam  door, 
Or  slowly  shapes,  with  axe  of  stone, 
The  arrow-head  from  flint  and  bone. 


10 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


Beneath  the  westward  turning  eye 
A  thousand  wooded  islands  lie, — 
Gems  of  the  waters ! — with  each  hue 
Of  brightness   set  in  ocean's  blue. 
Each  bears  aloft  its  tuft  of  trees 

Touched  by  the  pencil  of  the  frost, 
And,  with  the  motion  of  each  breeze, 

A  moment  seen,— a  moment  lost, — 

Changing  and  blent,  confused  and 
tossed, 

The     brighter     with     the     darker 

crossed, 

Their  thousand  tints  of  beauty  glow 
Down  in  the  restless  waves  below, 

And  tremble  in  the  sunny  skies, 
As  if,  from  waving  bough  to  bough, 

Flitted  the  birds  of  paradise. 
There   sleep    Placentia's   group, — and 

there 
Pere    Breteaux  marks  the    hour    of 

prayer ; 
And  there,  beneath  the  sea-worn  cliff, 

On  which  the  Father's  hut  is  seen, 
The  Indian  stays  his  rocking  skiff, 

And  peers  the  hemlock-boughs  be 
tween, 

Half  trembling,  as  he  seeks  to  look 
Upon  the  Jesuit's  Cross  and  Book. 
There,  gloomily  against  the  sky 
The   Dark   Isles   rear  their   summits 

high ; 

And  Desert  Rock,  abrupt  and  bare, 
Lifts  its  gray  turrets  in  the  air, — 
Seen  from  afar,  like  some  stronghold 
Built  by  the  ocean  kings  of  old ; 
And,    faint    as    smoke-wreath    white 

and  thin, 

Swells  in  the  north  vast  Katahdin: 
And,  wandering  from  its  marshy  feet, 
The  broad  Penobscot  comes  to  meet 

And   mingle   with   his   own   bright 

bay. 
Slow  sweep  his  dark  and  gathering 

floods, 

Arched  over  by  the  ancient  woods, 
Which  Time,  in  those  dim  solitudes, 

Wielding  the  dull  axe  of  Decay, 

Alone  hath  ever  shorn  away. 


Not  thus,   within   the   woods    which 

hide 
The  beauty  of  thy  azure  tide, 

And  with  their  falling  timbers  block 
Thy  broken  currents,  Kennebec  ! 
Gazes  the  white  man  on  the  wreck 
Of    the    down-trodden     Norridge- 

wock, — 

In  one  lone  village  hemmed  at  length, 
In  battle  shorn  of  half  their  strength, 
Turned,  like  the  panther  in  his  lair, 
With     his     fast-flowing     life-blood 

wet, 

For  one  last  struggle  of  despair, 
Wounded   and   faint,   but  tameless 

yet! 

Unreaped,  upon  the  planting  lands, 
The  scant,  neglected  harvest  stands: 
No  shout  is  there, — no  dance, — no 

song: 

The  aspect  of  the  very  child 
Scowls  with  a  meaning  sad  and  wild 

Of  bitterness  and  wrong. 
The  almost  infant  Norridgewock 
Essays  to  lift  the  tomahawk; 
And  plucks  his  father's  knife  away, 
To  mimic,  in  his  frightful  play, 

The  scalping  of  an  English  foe: 
Wreathes  on  his  lip  a  horrid  smile, 
Burns,  like  a  snake's,  his  small  eye, 

while 
Some  bough  or  sapling  meets  his 

blow. 

The  fisher,  as  he  drops  his  line, 
Starts,  when  he  sees  the  hazels  quiver 
Along  the  margin  of  the  river, 
Looks  up  and  down  the  rippling  tide, 
And  grasps  the  firelock  at  his  side. 
For  Bomazeen  from  Tacconock 
Has    sent   his   runners   to    Norridge 
wock, 

With  tidings  that  Moulton  and  Har 
mon  of  York 

Far  up  the  river  have  come: 
They  have  left  their  boats, — they  have 

entered  the  wood, 

And  filled  the  depths  of  the  solitude 
With    the    sound    of   the    ranger's 
drum. 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


11 


On  the  brow  of  a  hill,  which  slopes  to 
meet 

The    flowing    river,    and     bathe     its 
feet,— 

The  bare-washed  rock,  and  the  droop 
ing  grass, 

And  the  creeping  vine,  as  the  waters 
pass,— 

A  rude  and  unshapely  chapel  stands, 

Built   up    in    that    wild   by   unskilled 
hands ; 

Yet  the  traveller  knows  it  a  place  of 
prayer, 

For   the   holy    sign   of   the   cross    is 
there: 

And  should  he  chance  at  that  place 

to  be, 

Of  a  Sabbath  morn,  or  some  hal 
lowed  day, 

When  prayers  are  made  and  masses 
are  said, 

Some  for  the  living  and  some  for  the 
dead, 

Well  might  that  traveller  start  to  see 
The  tall  dark  forms,  that  take  their 
way 

From  the  birch  canoe,  on  the  river- 
shore, 

And  the  forest  paths,  to  that  chapel 
door; 

And  marvel  to  mark  the  naked  knees 
And  the  dusky  foreheads  bending 
there, 

While,  in  coarse  white  vesture,  over 

these 
In  blessing  or  in  prayer, 

Stretching  abroad  his  thin  pale  hands, 

Like   a    shrouded    ghost,    the   Jesuit 
stands. 

Two  forms  are  now  in  that  chapel 

dim, 

The  Jesuit,  silent  and  sad  and  pale, 
Anxiously    heeding    some    fearful 

tale, 

Which  a  stranger  is  telling  him. 
That    stranger's    garb    is    soiled   and 

torn, 
And  wet  with  dew  and  loosely  worn ; 


Her  fair  neglected  hair  falls  down 
O'er  cheeks  with  wind  and  sunshine 

brown ; 

Yet  still,  in  that  disordered  face, 
The  Jesuit's  cautious  eye  can  trace 
Those  elements  of  former  grace 
Which,    half    effaced,    seem    scarcely 

less, 
Even  now,  than  perfect  loveliness. 

With   drooping   head,  and   voice   so 

low, 
That    scare   it   meets   the    Jesuit's 

ears,— 
While   through  her    clasped    fingers 

flow, 
From  the  heart's   fountain,  hot  and 

slow, 

Her  penitential  tears, — 
She  tells  the  story  of  the  woe 
And  evil  of  her  years. 

"  O  father,  bear  with  me ;  my  heart 
Is  sick  and  death-like,  and  my  brain 
Seems  girdled  with  a  fiery  chain, 

Whose    scorching    links     will     never 

part, 
And  never  cool  again. 

Bear    with   me    while    I    speak, — but 

turn 
Away  that  gentle  eye,  the  while, — 

The  fires  of  guilt  more  fiercely  burn 
Beneath  its  holy  smile; 

For  half  I  fancy  1  can  see 

My  mother's  sainted  look  in  thee. 

"  My  dear  lost  mother !  sad  and  pale, 

Mournfully  sinking  day  by  day, 
And  with  a  hold  on  life  as  frail 
As    frosted   leaves,   that,   thin   and 

gray, 

Hang  feebly  on  their  parent  spray, 
And  tremble  in  the  gale; 
Yet  watching  o'er  my  childishness 
With  patient  fondness, — not  the  less 
For  all  the  agony  which  kept 
Her  blue  eye  wakeful,  while  I  slept ; 
And  checking  every  tear  and  groan 


12 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


That   haply   might   have   waked   my 

own, 

And  bearing  still,  without  offence, 
My  idle  words,  and  petulance ; 

Reproving  with  a  tear, — and,  while 
The  tooth  of  pain  was  keenly  preying 
Upon  her  very  heart,  repaying 

My  brief  repentance  with  a  smile. 

"O,  in  her  meek,  forgiving  eye 

There    was    a    brightness    not    of 

mirth, 
A  light  whose  clear  intensity 

Was  borrowed  not  of  earth. 
Along  her  cheek  a  deepening  red 
Told  where  the  feverish  hectic  fed; 

And  yet,  each  fatal  token  gave 
To  the  mild  beauty  of  her  face 
A  newer  and  a  dearer  grace, 

Unwarning  of  the  grave. 
'T  was   like  the  hue   which   Autumn 

gives 
To  yonder  changed  and  dying  leaves, 

Breathed  over  by  his  frosty  breath ; 
Scarce  can  the  gazer  feel  that  this 
Is  but  the  spoiler's  treacherous  kiss, 

The  mocking  smile  of  Death ! 

"  Sweet  were  the  tales  she  used  to 
tell 

When  summer's  eve  was  dear  to  us, 
And,  fading  from  the  darkening  dell, 
The  glory  of  the  sunset  fell 

On  wooded  Agamenticus, — 
When,  sitting  by  our  cottage  wall, 
The  murmur  of  the  Saco's  fall, 

And  the  south-wind's  expiring  sighs 
Came,  softly  blending,  on  my  ear, 
With  the  low  tones  I  loved  to  hear: 

Tales  of  the  pure, — the  good, — the 

wise, — 

The  holy  men  and  maids  of  old, 
In  the  all-sacred  pages  told; — 
Of  Rachel,  stooped  at  Haran's  foun 
tains, 

Amid  her  father's  thirsty  flock, 
Beautiful  to  her  kinsman_  seeming 
As  the  bright  angels  of  his  dreaming, 

On  Padan-aran's  holy  rock; 


Of  gentle  Ruth, — and  her  who  kept 

Her  awful  vigil  on  the  mountains, 
By  Israel's  virgin  daughters  wept; 
Of  Miriam,  with  her  maidens,  singing 

The  song  for  grateful  Israel  meet, 
While  every  crimson  wave  was  bring 
ing 

The  spoils  of  Egypt  at  her  feet ; 
Of  her, — Samaria's  humble  daughter, 

Who   paused   to   hear,   beside    her 
well, 

Lessens  of  love  and  truth,  which 

fell 
Softly  as  Shiloh's  flowing  water; 

And  saw,  beneath  his  pilgrim  guise, 
The  Promised  One,  so  long  foretold 
By  holy  seer  and  bard  of  old, 
Revealed  before  her  wondering  eyes ! 

"  Slowly  she  faded.  Day  by  day 
Her  step  grew  weaker  in  our  hall, 
And  fainter,  at  each  even-fall, 

Her  sad  voice  died  away. 
Yet  on  her  thin,  pale  lip,  the  while, 
Sat  Resignation's  holy  smile: 
And    even    my    father    checked    his 

tread, 

And  hushed  his  voice,  beside  her  bed: 
Beneath  the  calm  and  sad  rebuke 
Of  her  meek  eye's   imploring  look, 
The  scowl  of  hate  his  brow  forsook, 

And  in  his  stern  and  gloomy  eye, 
At  times,  a  few  unwonted  tears 
Wet  the  dark  lashes,  which  for  years 

Hatred  and  pride  had  kept  so  dry. 

"  Calm  as  a  child  to  slumber  soothed, 
As  if  an  angel's  hand  had  smoothed 
The  still,  white  features  into  rest, 
Silent  and  cold,  without  a  breath 

To  stir  the  drapery  on  her  breast, 
Pain,    with    its    keen    and    poisoned 

fang, 

The  horror  of  the  mortal  pang, 
The   suffering  look    her    brow    had 

worn, 
The    fear,    the    strife,    the    anguish 

gone, — 
She  slept  at  last  in  death! 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


13 


"  O,  tell  me,  father,  can  the  dead 
Walk  on  the  earth,  and  look  on  us, 

And  lay  upon  the  living's  head 
Their  blessing  or  their  curse? 

For,  O,  last  night  she  stood  by  me, 

As    I    lay     beneath     the     woodland 
tree ! " 

The  Jesuit  crosses  himself  in  awe, — 
"Jesu!    what    was    it    my    daughter 
saw?" 

"  She  came  to  me  last  night. 
The  dried  leaves  did  not  feel  her 

tread ; 

She  stood  by  me  in  the  wan  moon 
light, 

In  the  white  robes  of  the  dead ! 
Pale,  and  very  mournfully 
She  bent  her  light  form  over  me. 
I  heard  no  sound,  I  felt  no  breath 
Breathe  o'er  me   from  that   face  of 

death: 

Its  blue  eyes  rested  on  my  own, 
Rayless  and  cold  as  eyes  of  stone ; 
Yet,  in  their  fixed,  unchanging  gaze, 
Something,    which    spoke    of     early 

days, — • 

A  sadness  in  their  quiet  glare, 
As  if  love's  smile  were  frozen  there, — 
Came  o'er  me  with  an  icy  thrill ; 
O  God !  I  feel  its  presence  still !  " 

The  Jesuit  makes  the  holy  sign, — 
"  How    passed    the    vision,    daughter 
mine  ?  " 

"  All  dimly  in  the  wan  moonshine, 
As  a  wreath  of  mist  will  twist  and 

twine, 

And  scatter,  and  melt  into  the  light,— 
So  scattering, — melting  on  my  sight, 

The  pale,  cold  vision  passed; 
But    those   sad   eyes   were   fixed    on 

mine 
Mournfully  to  the  last." 

"God    help    thee,    daughter,    tell   me 

why 
That  spirit  passed  before  thine  eye !  " 


"  Father,  I  know  not,  save  it  be 
That  deeds  of  mine  have  summoned 

her 

From  the  unbreathing  sepulchre, 
To  leave  her  last  rebuke  with  me. 
Ah,  woe  for  me !  my  mother  died 
Just  at  the  moment  when  I  stood 
Close  on  the  verge  of  womanhood, 
A  child  in  everything  beside ; 
And  when    my    wild    heart    needed 

most 
Her  gentle  counsels,  they  were  lost. 

"  My  father  lived  a  stormy  life, 

Of  frequent  change  and  daily  strife; 

And, — God     forgive    him!     left    his 

child 

To  feel,  like  him,  a  freedom  wild; 
To  love  the  red  man's  dwelling-place, 

The    birch    boat    on    his     shaded 

floods, 
The  wild  excitement  of  the  chase 

Sweeping  the  ancient  woods, 
The  camp-fire,  blazing  on  the  shore 

Of  the  still  lakes,  the  clear  stream, 
where 

The  idle  fisher  sets  his  wear, 
Or  angles  in  the  shade,  far  more 

Than  that  restraining  awe  I  felt 
Beneath  my  gentle  mother's  care, 

When  nightly  at  her  knee  I  knelt, 
With    childhood's    simple   prayer. 

"There  came  a  change.     The    wild, 

glad  mood 

Of  unchecked  freedom  passed. 
Amid  the  ancient  solitude 
Of  unshorn  grass  and  waving  wood, 
And   waters     glancing    bright   and 

fast, 

A  softened  voice  was  in  my  ear, 
Sweet  as  those  lulling    sounds    and 

fine 

The  hunter  lifts  his  head  to  hear, 
Now    far    and    faint,    now    full    and 

near — 
The  murmur    of    the    wind-swept 

pine. 

A  manly  form  was  ever  nigh, 
A  bold,  free  hunter,  with  an  eye 


14 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


Whose    dark,  keen  glance  and  power 

to  wake 
Both    fear    and    love, — to    awe    and 

charm ; 

'T  was  as  the  wizard  rattlesnake, 
Whose  evil  glances  lure  to  harm — 
Whose  cold  and  small  and  glittering 

eye, 

And  brilliant  coil,  and  changing  dye, 
Draw,  step  by  step,  the  gazer  near, 
With  drooping  wing  and  cry  of  fear, 
Yet  powerless  all  to  turn  away, 
A  conscious,  but  a  willing  prey! 

"  Fear,    doubt,    thought,    life    itself, 

erelong 
Merged    in    one    feeling     deep     and 

strong. 

Faded  the  world  which  I  had  known, 
A    poor     vain    shadow,    cold    and 

waste ; 
In  the  warm  present  bliss  alone 

Seemed  I  of  actual  life  to  taste. 
Fond  longings  dimly  understood, 
The  glow  of  passion's  quickening 

blood, 

And  cherished  fantasies  which  press 
The   young   lip   with   a   dream;s    ca 
ress, — 

The  heart's  forecast  and  prophecy 
Took  form  and  life  before  my  eye, 
Seen    in   the   glance   which    met   my 

own, 

Heard  in  the  soft  and  pleading  tone, 
Felt  in  the  arms  around  me  cast, 
And  warm  heart-pulses  beating  fast. 
Ah !  scarcely  yet  to  God  above 
With  deeper  trust,  with  stronger  love 
Has  prayerful  saint  his  meek  heart 

lent, 

Or  cloistered  nun  at  twilight  bent, 
Than  I,  before  a  human   shrine, 
As  mortal  and  as  frail  as  mine, 
With  heart,  and  soul,  and  mind,  and 

form, 
Knelt  madly  to  a  fellow-worm. 

"  Full  soon,  upon  that  dream  of  sin, 
An  awful  light  came  bursting  in. 


The  shrine  was  cold,  at  which  I  knelt, 

The  idol  of  that  shrine  was  gone; 
A  humbled  thing  of  shame  and  guilt, 

Outcast,  and  spurned  and  lone, 
Wrapt  in  the  shadows  of  my  crime, 

With  withering  heart  and  burning 
brain. 

And  tears  that  fell  like  fiery  rain, 
I  passed  a  fearful  time. 

"  There  came  a  voice — it  checked  the 

tear- 
In   heart   and   soul    it   wrought    a 
change ; — 

My  father's  voice  was  in  my  ear ; 
It  whispered  of  revenge ! 

A  new  and  fiercer  feeling  swept 
All  lingering  tenderness  away; 

And  tiger  passions,  which  had  slept 
In  childhood's  better  day, 

Unknown,  unfelt,  arose  at  length 

In  all  their  own  demoniac  strength. 

"  A  youthful  warrior  of  the  wild, 
By    words    deceived,    by    smiles     be 
guiled, 

Of  crime  the  cheated  instrument, 
Upon  our  fatal  errands  went. 

Through  camp  and  town  and  wil 
derness 

He  tracked  his  victim ;  and,  at  last, 
Just    when    the    tide     of     hate     had 

passed, 
And  milder  thoughts  came  warm  and 

fast, 

Exulting,  at  my  feet  he  cast 
The  bloody  token  of  success. 

"  O  God !  with  what  an  awful  power 

I  saw  the  buried  past  uprise, 
And  gather,  in  a  single  hour, 

Its  ghost-like  memories ! 
And  then  I  felt— alas !  too  late— 
That  underneath  the  mask  of  hate, 
That  shame  and  guilt  and  wrong  had 

thrown 
O'er   feelings   which   they  might   not 

own, 

The  heart's  wild  love   had  known 
no  change; 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


15 


And  still,  that  deep  and  hidden  love, 
With  its  first  fondness,  wept  above 

The  victim  of  its  own  revenge! 
There  lay  the  fearful  scalp,  and  there 
The   blood    was    on    its    pale   brown 

hair! 
I  thought  not  of  the  victim's  scorn, 

I  thought  not  of  his  baleful  guile, 
My  deadly  wrong,  my  outcast  name, 
The  characters  of  sin  and  shame 
On  heart  and  forehead  drawn; 

I  only  saw  that  victim's  smile, — 
The   still,    green    places    where    we 

met, — 

The  moonlit  branches,  dewy  wet; 
I  only  felt,  I  only  heard 
The  greeting  and  the  parting  word, — 
The  smile, — the    embrace, — the    tone, 

which  made 
An  Eden  of  the  forest  shade. 

"  And  oh,  with  what  a  loathing  eye, 
With    what     a     deadly    hate,     and 

deep, 
I  saw  that  Indian  murderer  lie 

Before  me,  in  his  drunken  sleep ! 
What  though   for   me  the  deed  was 

done, 

And  words  of  mine  had  sped  him  on ! 
Yet  when  he  murmured,  as  he  slept, 
The  horrors  of  that  deed  of  blood, 
The  tide  of  utter  madness  swept 

O'er  brain  and  bosom,  like  a  flood. 

And,  father,  with  this  hand  of  mine — : 

"  Ha  !  what  didst  thou?  "  the  Jesuit 

cries, 
Shuddering,  as   smitten  with   sudden 

pain, 
And  shading,  with  one  thin  hand, 

his  eyes, 
With    the   other   he   makes   the    holy 

sign. 

—I  smote  him  as  I  would  a  worm ; — 
With  heart  as  steeled,  with  nerves  as 

firm: 
He  never  woke  again !  " 

"  Woman  of  sin  and  blood  and  srmme, 
Speak, — I    would  know   that  victim's 
name." 


"  Father,"    she   gasped,    "  a   chieftain, 

known 
As  Saco's  Sachem, — MOGG  MEGONE  !  " 

Pale  priest!     What  proud  and  lofty 

dreams, 
What   keen   desires,    what   cherished 

schemes, 

What  hopes,  that  time  may  not  recall, 
Are  darkened  by  that  chieftain's  fall ! 
Was  he  not  pledged,  by  cross  and 
vow, 

To  lift  the  hatchet  of  his  sire, 
And,  round  his  own,  the  Church's  foe, 

To    light    the    avenging   fire? 
Who  now  the  Tarrantine  shall  wake, 
For  thine  and  for  the  Church's  sake? 

Who  summon  to  the  scene 
Of  conquest  and  unsparing  strife, 
And  vengeance  dearer  than  his  life, 

The  fiery-souled  Castine? 
Three    backward     steps     the    Jesuit 

takes, — 
His  long,  thin  frame  as  ague  shakes ; 

And  loathing  hate  is  in  his  eye, 
As  from  his  lips  these  words  of  fear 
Fall  hoarsely  on  the  maiden's  ear, — 

"  The  soul  that  sinneth  shall  surely 
die !  " 


She  stands,  as    stands    the    stricken 

deer, 
Checked    midway    in    the    fearful 

chase, 

When  bursts,  upon  his  eye  and  ear, 
The  gaunt,  gray  robber,  baying  near, 
Between  him  and  his  hiding-place; 
While  still  behind,  with  yell  and  blow, 
Sweeps,  like  a  storm,  the  coming  foe. 
'  Save  me,  O  holy  man !  " — her  cry 
Fills  all  the  void,  as  if  a  tongue, 
Unseen,  from  rib  and  rafter  hung, 
Thrilling  with  mortal  agony; 
Her  hands   are   clasping  the  Jesuit's 

knee, 
And  her  eye  looks  fearfully  into  his 

own; — • 
'  Off,  woman  of  sin ! — nay,  touch  not 

me 
With  those  fingers  of  blood; — be 


gone 


16 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


With  a  gesture  of  horror,  he  spurns 

the  form 
That  writhes  at  his  feet  like  a  trodden 

worm. 

Ever  thus  the  spirit  must, 

Guilty  in  the  sight  of  Heaven, 
With  a  keener  woe  be  riven, 

For  its  weak  and  sinful  trust 

In  the  strength  of  human  dust; 
And  its  anguish  thrill  afresh, 

For  each  vain  reliance  given 
To  the  failing  arm  of  flesh. 


PART  III. 

AH,  weary  Priest! — with  pale  hands 
pressed 

On  thy  throbbing  brow  of  pain, 
Baffled  in  thy  life-long  quest, 

Overworn   with   toiling  vain, 
How  ill  thy  troubled  musings  fit 

The  holy  quiet  of  a  breast 

With  the  Dove  of  Peace  at  rest, 
Sweetly  brooding  over  it. 
Thoughts   are  thine   which   have   no 

part 

With  the  meek  and  pure  of  heart, 
Undisturbed    by   outward    things, 
Resting  in  the  heavenly  shade, 
By  the  overspreading  wings 

Of  the  Blessed  Spirit  made. 
Thoughts    of     strife     and    hate    and 

wrong 

Sweep  thy  heated  brain  along, — • 
Fading  hopes,  for  whose  success 

It  were  sin  to  breathe  a  prayer ; — 
Schemes   which    Heaven   may    never 
bless, — 

Fears  which  darken  to  despair. 
Hoary  priest !  thy  dream  is  done 
Of  a  hundred  red  tribes  won 

To  the  pale  of  Holy  Church; 
And  the  heretic  o'erthrown, 
And  his  name  no  longer  known, 
And  thy  weary  brethren  turning, 
Joyful  from  their  years  of  mourning, 
'Twixt  the  altar  and  the  porch. 
Hark !  what  sudden  sound  is  heard 

In  the  wood  and  in  the  sky, 
Shriller  than  the  scream  of  bird, — 


Than  the  trumpet's  clang  more  high  ! 
Every  wolf-cave  of  the  hills, — 
Forest  arch  and  mountain  gorge, 
Rock  and  dell,  and  river  verge,— 
With  an  answering  echo  thrills. 
Well  does  the  Jesuit  know  that  cry, 
Which  summons  the  Norridgewock  to 

die, 
And  tells  that  the  foe  of  his  flock  is 

nigh. 
He    listens,    and    hears    the    rangers 

come, 

With  loud  hurrah,  and  jar  of  drum, 
And  hurrying  feet   (for  the  chase  is 

hot), 
And  the  short,  sharp  sound  of  rifle 

shot, 
And   taunt    and    menace, — answered 

well 
By    the   Indians'    mocking    cry    and 

yell  — 
The  bark  of  dogs, — the  squaw's  mad 

scream, — • 
The     dash     of     paddles     along     the 

stream, — • 
The  whistle   of   shot  as   it  cuts   the 

leaves 
Of   the   maples  around   the    church's 

eaves, — 
And   the    gride   of   hatchets,    fiercely 

thrown, 

On  wigwam-log  and  tree  and  stone. 
Black  with   the  grime  of  paint    and 

dust, 
Spotted  and   streaked  with  human 

gore, 

A  grim  and  naked  head  is  thrust 
Within  the  chapel-door. 
Ha — Bomazeen  !  —  In    God's    name 

say, 
What  mean  these  sounds   of  bloody 

fray?" 
Silent,  the  Indian  points  his  hand 

To  where  across  the  echoing  glen 
Sweep     Harmon's     dreaded     ranger- 
band, 

And  Moulton  with_  his  men. 
"Where  are  thy  warriors,  Bomazeen? 
Where  are  De  Rouville  and  Castine, 
And  where   the  braves    of    Sawga's 

queen  ?  " 

"  Let  my  father  find  the  winter  snow 
Which  the  sun  drank  up  long  moons 

ago! 


The  moon  was  up.    One  general  smile 
Was  resting  on  the  Indian  isle —    *    * 
Rose,  mellow'd  through  the  silver  gleam, 
Soft  as  the  landscape  of  a  dream. 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


17 


Under  the  falls  of  Tacconock, 

The  wolves  are  eating  the  Norridge- 

wock; 

Castine  with  his  wives  lies  closely  hid 
Like  a  fox  in  the  woods  of  Pemaquid ! 
On  Sawga's  banks  -the  man  of  war 
Sits  in  his  wigwam  like  a  squaw, — 
Squando  has  fled,  and  Mogg  Megone, 
Struck  by  the  knife  of  Sagamore 

John, 
Lies  stiff  and  stark  and  cold  as  stone." 

Fearfully  over  the  Jesuit's  face, 

Of  a  thousand  thoughts,  trace  after 

trace, 
Like  swift  cloud-shadows,  each  other 

chase. 
One    instant,    his    fingers    grasp    his 

knife, 
For  a  last  vain  struggle  for  cherished 

life, — 

The  next,  he  hurls  the  blade  away, 
And  kneels  at  his  altar's  foot  to  pray; 
Over  his  beads  his  fingers  stray, 
And   he   kisses   the  cross,   and   calls 

aloud 

On  the  Virgin  and  her  Son; 
For    terrible    thoughts    his    memory 

crowd 

Of  evil  seen  and  done, — 
Of  scalps  brought  home  by  his  savage 

flock 
From  Casco  and  Sawga  and  Sagada- 

hock, 
In  the  Church's  service  won. 

No  shrift  the  gloomy  savage  brooks, 
As  scowling  on  the  priest  he  looks: 
"  Cowesass — cowesass —  tawhich  wes- 

saseen  ? 

Let  my  father  look  upon  Bomazeen, — 
My  father's  heart  is  the  heart  of  a 

squaw, 
But  mine  is  so  hard  that  it  does  not 

thaw : 

Let  my  father  ask  his  God  to  make 
A  dance  and  a  feast  for  a  great 

sagamore, 
When  he  paddles  across  the  western 

lake, 
With  his  dogs  and  his   squaws  to 

the  spirit's  shore. 


Cowesass — cowesass — tawhich  wessa- 

seen? 
Let  my  father  die  like  Bomazeen ! " 

Through  the  chapel's  narrow  doors, 

And  through   each  window  in  the 

walls, 
Round  the  priest  and  warrior  pours 

The  deadly  shower  of  English  balls. 
Low  on  his  cross  the  Jesuit  falls ; 
While  at  his  side  the  Norridgewock, 
With  failing  breath,  essays  to  mock 
And  menace  yet  the  hated  foe, — 
Shakes  his  scalp-trophies  to  and  fro 

Exultingly  before  their  eyes, — 
Till,  cleft  and  torn  by  shot  and  blow, 

Defiant   still,  he   dies. 

"  So  fare  all  eaters  of  the  frog ! 
Death  to  the  Babylonish  dog! 

Down  with  the  beast  of  Rome !  " 
With  shouts    like  these,   around  the 

dead, 

Unconscious  on  his  bloody  bed, 
The  rangers  crowding  come. 
Brave   men !   the  dead  priest  cannot 

hear 
The     unfeeling     taunt, — the     brutal 

jeer;— 

Spurn — for  he  sees  ye  not — in  wrath, 

The  symbol  of  your  Saviour's  death ; 

Tear  from  his  death-grasp,  in  your 

zeal, 

And  trample,  as  a  thing  accursed, 
The  cross  he  cherished  in  the  dust: 
The  dead  man  cannot  feel ! 


Brutal  alike  in  deed  and  word, 
With   callous   heart   and  hand    of 
strife, 

How  like  a  fiend  may  man  be  made, 

Plying  the  foul  and  monstrous  trade 
Whose  harvest-field  is  human  life, 

Whose  sickle  is  the  reeking  sword! 

Quenching,    with     reckless    hand    in 
blood, 

Sparks  kindled  by  the  breath  of  God ; 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


Urging  the  deathless  soul,  unshriven 

Of  open  guilt  or  secret  sin, 
Before  the  bar  of  that  pure  Heaven 

The  holy  only  enter  in! 
O,  by  the  widow's  sore  distress, 
The  orphan's  wailing  wretchedness, 
By  Virtue  struggling  in  the  accursed 
Embraces  of  polluting  Lust, 
By  the  fell  discord  of  the  Pit, 
And  the  pained  souls  that  people  it, 
And  by  the  blessed  peace  which  fills 

The  Paradise  of  God  forever, 
Resting  on  all  its  holy  hills, 
And     flowing     with      its      crystal 

river, — 

Let  Christian  hands  no  longer  bear 
In  triumph  on  his  crimson  car 
The  foul  and  idol  god  of  war; 
No  more  the  purple  wreaths  prepare 
To  bind  amid  his  snaky  hair ; 
Nor  Christian  bards  his  glories  tell, 
Nor    Christian    tongues    his    praises 
swell. 

Through    the    gun-smoke    wreathing 
white, 

Glimpses  on  the  soldiers'  sight 

A  thing  of  human  shape  I  ween, 

For  a  moment  only  seen, 

With  its  loose  hair  backward  stream 
ing, 

And  its  eyeballs  madly  gleaming, 

Shrieking,  like  a  soul  in  pain, 
From    the    world    of     light     and 
breath, 

Hurrying  to  its  place  again, 
Spectre-like  it  vanisheth! 

Wretched  girl !  one  eye  alone 

Notes  the  way  which  thou  hast  gone. 

That    great     Eye,    which     slumbers 

never, 

Watching  o'er  a  lost  world  ever, 
Tracks  thee  over  vale  and  mountain, 
By  the  gushing  forest-fountain, 
Plucking  from  the  vine  its  fruit, 
Searching  for  the  ground-nut's  root, 
Peering  in  the   she-wolfs   den, 
Wading  through  the  marshy  fen, 
Where  the  sluggish  water-snake 


Basks  beside  the  sunny  brake, 
Coiling  in  his  slimy  bed, 
Smooth  and  cold  against  thy  tread, — 
Purposeless,  thy  mazy  way 
Threading     through     the     lingering 

day. 

And  at  night  securely   sleeping 
Where  the  dogwood's  dews  are  weep 
ing  ! 
Still,  though  earth  and  man  discard 

thee, 
Doth     thy    Heavenly    Father    guard 

thee: 
He  who  spared  the  guilty  Cain, 

Even  when  a  brother's  blood, 

Crying  in  the  ear  of  God, 
Gave  the  earth  its  primal  stain, — 
He  whose  mercy  ever  liveth, 
Who  repenting  guilt  forgiveth, 
And  the  broken  heart  receiveth, — 
Wanderer  of  the   wilderness, 

Haunted,  guilty,  crazed,  and  wild, 
He    regardeth    thy    distress, 

And  careth  for  his  sinful  child! 


T  is  spring-time  on  the  eastern  hills ! 
Like  torrents  gush  the  summer  rills; 
Through  winter's  moss  and  dry  dead 

leaves 

The  bladed  grass  revives   and   lives. 
Pushes  the  mouldering  waste  away, 
And  glimpses  to  the  April  day. 
[n  kindly  shower  and  sunshine  bud 
The  branches  of  the  dull  gray  wood ; 
Out    from   its   sunned  and   sheltered 

nooks 

The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks ; 
The    southwest    wind    is     warmly 

blowing, 

And  odors  from  the  springing  grays, 
The  pine-tree  and  the  sassafras, 
Are  with  it  on  its  errands  going. 

A    band    is    marching    through     the 

wood 
Where      rolls      the      Kennebec     his 

flood,— 

The  warriors  of  the  wilderness, 
Painted,  and  in  their  battle  dress : 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


19 


And  with   them  one  whose  bearded 

cheek, 

And  white   and  wrinkled  brow,  be 
speak 
A  wanderer  from  the    shores    of 

France. 

A  few  long  locks  of  scattering  snow 
Beneath  a  battered  morion  flow, 
And  from  the  rivets  of  the  vest 
Which    girds    in    steel     his     ample 

breast, 

The   slanted  sunbeams  glance. 
In  the  harsh  outlines  of  his  face 
Passion  and  sin  have  left  their  trace; 
Yet,  save  worn  brow  and  thin  gray 

hair, 
No  signs  of  weary  age  are  there. 

His  step  is  firm,  his  eye  is  keen, 
Nor  years  in  broil  and  battle  spent, 
Nor  toil,  nor  wounds,  nor  pain  have 

bent 
The  lordly  frame  of  old  Castine. 

No  purpose  now  of  strife  and  blood 

Urges  the  hoary  veteran  on: 
The  fire  of  conquest,  and  the  mood 

Of  chivalry  have  gone. 
A  mournful  task  is  his, — to  lay 
Within    the    earth     the     bones     of 

those 

Who  perished  in  that  fearful  day, 
When     Norridgewock     became     the 

prey 

Of  all  unsparing  foes. 
Sadly   and   still,   dark    thoughts    be 
tween, 

Of  coming    vengeance    mused    Cas 
tine, 

Of  the  fallen  chieftain  Bomazeen, 
Who   bade    for    him    the     Norridge- 

wocks, 
Dig  up  their  buried  tomahawks 

For  firm  defence  or  swift  attack ; 
And  him  whose  friendship  formed 

the  tie 
Which    held    the     stern     se1f-exile 

back 

From  lapsing  into  savagery; 
Whose    garb    and    tone    and    kindly 
glance 


Recalled  a  younger,  happier  day, 
And     prompted     memory's      fond 

essay, 
To  bridge  the  mighty  waste  which 

lay 
Between   his   wild   home   and  that 

gray, 

Tall  chateau  of  his  native  France, 
Whose  chapel    bell,    with    far-heard 

din 

Ushered  his  birth-hour  gayly  in, 
And  counted  with  its  solemn  toll 
The  masses  for  his  father's  soul. 


Hark!    from    the    foremost    of    the 

band 

Suddenly  bursts  the  Indian  yell ; 
For  now  on  the  very  spot  they  stand 
Where  the  Norridgewocks  fighting 

fell. 

No  wigwam  smoke  is  curling  there; 
The     very    earth     is     scorched     and 

bare: 
And  they  pause  and  listen  to  catch  a 

sound 
Of  breathing  life, — but  there  comes 

not  one, 
Save  the  fox's  bark  and  the  rabbit's 

bound ; 
But  here  and  there,  on  the  blackened 

ground, 
White  bones  are  glistening  in  the 

sun. 
And    where    the    house    of     prayer 

arose, 
And    the   holy   hymn,    at    daylight's 

close, 
And  the  aged    priest    stood    up    to 

bless 

The  children  of  the  wilderness, 
There  is  naught   save  ashes   sodden 

and  dank ; 

And  the  birchen  boats  of  the  Nor 
ridgewock, 
Tethered   to   tree  and   stump    and 

rock, 
Rotting  along  the   river  bank! 

Blessed  Mary!  who  is  she 
Leaning  against  that  maple-tree? 


20 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


The  sun  upon  her  face  burns  hot, 
But  the  fixed  eyelid  moveth  not; 
The   squirrel's    chirp    is    shrill    and 

clear 

From  the  dry  bough  above  her  ear ; 
Dashing    from    rock    and     root     its 

spray, 

Close  at  her  feet  the  river  rushes ; 
The  blackbird's  wing  against    her 

brushes, 

And  sweetly    through    the    hazel- 
bushes 

The  robin's  mellow  music  gushes ; — 
God  save  her!  will  she  sleep  alway? 


Castine    hath    bent    him    over     the 

sleeper: 
"  Wake>   daughter,  —  wake !  "  —  but 

she   stirs  no   limb: 
The  eye  that  looks  on  him  is  fixed 

and  dim ; 
And  the  sleep  she  is  sleeping  shall  be 

no  deeper, 

Until   the   angel's   oath   is   said, 
And  the  final  blast  of  the  trump  goes 

forth 
To    the    graves    of    the  sea  and  the 

graves   of  earth. 
RUTH  BONYTHON  is  DEAD! 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK,  1848. 


WE  had  been  wandering   for  many 

days 
Through  the  rough  northern  country. 

We  had  seen 
The  sunset,  with  its  bars  of  purple 

cloud, 
Like   a    new    heaven,    shine    upward 

from  the  lake 

Of  Winnepiseogee ;  and  had  felt 
The  sunrise  breezes,  midst  the  leafy 

isles 
Which  stoop  their  summer  beauty  to 

the  lips 
Of    the     bright     waters.      We     had 

checked  our  steeds, 
Silent  with  wonder,  where  the  moun 
tain  wall 
Is  piled  to  heaven;  and,  through  the 

narrow  rift 
Of    the    -/ast    rocks,    against     whose 

rugged  feet 
Beats  the  mad  torrent  with  perpetual 

roar, 
Where  noonday  is   as   twilight,   and 

the  wind 
Comes  burdened  with  the  everlasting 

moan 

Of  forests  and  of  far-off  waterfalls, 
We  had  looked   upward    where    the 

summer  sky, 


Tasselled  with  clouds  light-woven  by 
the  sun, 

Sprung  its  blue  arch  above  the  abut 
ting  crags 

O'er-roofing  the  vast  portal  of  the 
land 

Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains.  We 
had  passed 

The  high  source  of  the  Saco ;  and  be 
wildered 

In  the  dwarf  spruce-belts  of  the  Crys 
tal  Hills, 

Had  heard  above  us,  like  a  voice  in 
the  cloud, 

The  horn  of  Fabyan  sounding;  and 
atop 

Of  old  Agioochook  had  seen  the 
mountains 

Piled  to  the  northward,  shagged  with 
wood,  and  thick 

As  meadow  mole-hills, — the  far  sea 
of  Casco, 

A  white  gleam  on  the  horizon  of  the 
east ; 

Fair  lakes,  embosomed  in  the  woods 
and  hills ; 

Moosehillock's  mountain  range,  and 
Kearsarge 

Lifting  his  Titan  forehead  to  the  sun ! 


The  passion  flower,  with  symbol  holy, 
Twining  its  tendrils  long  and  lowly, —    * 
The  kingly  palm's  imperial  stem, 
<">own'd  with  its  leafv  diadem. 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


21 


And  we  had  rested  underneath   the 

oaks 
Shadowing   the   bank,   whose   grassy 

spires  are  shaken 

By  the  perpetual  beating  of  the  falls 
Of  the  wild  Ammonoosuc.     We  had 

tracked 

The  winding  Pemigewasset,  overhung 
By  beechen  shadows,  whitening  down 

its  rocks, 

Or  lazily  gliding  through  its  intervals, 
From  waving   rye-fields    sending   up 

the  gleam 
Of  sunlit  waters.     We  had  seen  the 

moon 
Rising     behind     Umbagog's     eastern 

pines, 
Like   a  great   Indian  camp-fire;   and 

its  beams 
At  midnight  spanning  with  a  bridge 

of  silver 
The     Merrimack     by     Uncanoonuc's 

falls. 


There  were  five  souls  of  us   whom 

travel's  chance 
Had  thrown  together  in  these  wild 

north  hills: — 

A  city  lawyer,  for  a  month  escaping 
From  his  dull  office,  where  the  weary 

eye 
Saw  only  hot  brick  walls  and  close 

thronged  streets, — 
Briefless  as  yet,  but  with  an  eye  to  see 
Life's  sunniest  side,  and  with  a  heart 

to  take 
Its  chances  all  as  godsends;  and  his 

brother, 

Pale  from  long  pulpit  studies,  yet  re 
taining 
The  warmth  and  freshness  of  a  genial 

heart, 
Whose  mirror  of  the  beautiful  and 

true, 
In  Man  and  Nature,  was  as  yet  un- 

dimmed 

By  dust  of  theologic  strife,  or  breath 
Of  sect,  or  cobwebs  of  scholastic  lore ; 
Like  a  clear  crystal  calm  of  water, 

taking 
The    hue   and    image   of   o'erleaning 

flowers, 


Sweet  human  faces,  white  clouds  of 
the  noon, 

Slant  starlight  glimpses  through  the 
dewy  leaves, 

And  tenderest  moonrise.  'T  was,  in 
truth,  a  study, 

To  mark  his  spirit,  alternating  be 
tween 

A  decent  and  professional  gravity 

And  an  irreverent  mirthfulness,  which 
often 

Laughed  in  the  face  of  his  divinity, 

Plucked  off  the  sacred  ephod,  quite 
unshrined  • 

The  oracle,  and  for  the  pattern  priest 

Left  us  the  man.  A  shrewd,  saga 
cious  merchant, 

To  whom  the  spiled  sheet  found  in 
Crawford's  inn, 

Giving  the  latest  news  of  city  stocks 

And  sales  of  cotton,  had  a  deeper 
meaning 

Than  the  great  presence  of  the  awful 
mountains 

Glorified  by  the  sunset; — and  his 
daughter 

A  delicate  flower  on  whom  had  blown 
too  long 

Those  evil  winds,  which,  sweeping 
from  the  ice 

And  winnowing  the  fogs  of  Labrador, 

Shed  their  cold  blight  round  Massa 
chusetts  Bay, 

With  the  same  breath  which  stirs 
Spring's  opening  leaves 

And  lifts  her  half-formed  flower-bell 
on  its  stem,  • 

Poisoning  our  seaside  atmosphere. 

It  chanced 

That  as  we  turned  upon  our  home 
ward  way, 
A    drear    northeastern    storm    came 

howling  up 

The  valley  of  the  Saco ;  and  that  girl 
Who  had  stood  with  us  upon  Mount 

Washington, 
Her  brown  locks  ruffled  by  the  wind 

which  whirled 

In  gusts  around  its  sharp  cold  pin 
nacle, 


22 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


Who  had  joined  our  gay  trout-fishing 

in  the  streams 
Which  lave  that  giant's  feet;  whose 

laugh  was  heard 
Like   a   bird's    carol   on   the   sunrise 

breeze 
Which   swelled   our   sail    amidst   the 

lake's  green  islands, 
Shrank  from  its  harsh,  chill  breath, 

and  visibly  drooped 
Like  a  flower  in  the  frost.    So,  in  that 

quiet  inn 
Which   looks    from   Conway  on    the 

mountains  piled 
Heavily  against  the   horizon   of  the 

north, 
Like     summer     thunder-clouds,     we 

made  our  home: 

And  while  the  mist  hung  over  drip 
ping  hills, 
And  the  cold  wind-driven  rain-drops 

all  day  long 
Beat  their  sad  music  upon  roof  and 

pane, 
We  strove  to  cheer  our  gentle  invalid. 

The  lawyer  in  the  pauses  of  the  storm 

Went  angling  down  the  Saco,  and, 
returning, 

Recounted  his  adventures  and  mis 
haps; 

Gave  us  the  history  of  his  scaly  cli 
ents, 

Mingling  with  ludicrous  yet  apt  cita 
tions 

Of  barbarous  law  Latin,  passages 

From  Izaak  Walton's  Angler,  sweet 
and  fresh 

As  the  flower-skirted  streams  of  Staf 
fordshire, 

Where,  under  aged  trees,  the  south 
west  wind 

Of  soft  June  mornings  fanned  the 
thin,  white  hair 

Of  the  sage  fisher.  And.  if  truth  be 
told, 

Our  youthful  candidate  forsook  his 
sermons, 

His  commentaries,  articles  and  creeds, 

For  the  fair  page  of  human  loveli 
ness, — 


The  missal  of  young  hearts,  whose 

sacred  text, 

Is  music,  its  illumining  sweet  smiles, 
He  sang  the  songs  she  loved;  and  in 

his  low, 
Deep,  earnest  voice,  recited  many  a 

page 

Of  poetry, — the  holiest,  tenderest  lines 
Of  the  sad  bard  of  Olney, — the  sweet 

songs, 
Simple  and   beautiful  as  Truth  and 

Nature,' 
Of    him    whose    whitened    locks     on 

Rydal  Mount 
Are    lifted   yet   by   morning   breezes 

blowing 
From  the  green  hills,  immortal  in  his 

lays. 

And  for  myself,  obedient  to  her  wish, 
I    searched  our   landlord's    proffered 

library, — 
A   well-thumbed    Bunyan,     with    its 

nice  wood  pictures 
Of  scaly  fiends  and  angels  not  unlike 

them, — 

Watts'  unmelodious  psalms, — Astrol 
ogy's 

Last  home,  a  musty  pile  of  almanacs, 
And  an  old  chronicle  of  border  wars 
And  Indian  history.    And,  as  I  read 
A  story  of  the  marriage  of  the  Chief 
Of  Saugus  to  the  dusky  Weetamoo, 
Daughter     of     Passaconaway,     who 

dwelt 

In  the  old  time  upon  the  Merrimack, 
Our  fair  one,  in  the  playful  exercise 
Of   her    prerogative, — the    right    di 
vine 
Of     youth     and     beauty, — bade     us 

versify 
The    legend,   and   with   ready   pencil 

sketched 

Its  plan  and  outlines,  laughingly  as 
signing 
To   each   his   part,   and  barring  our 

excuses 

With  absolute  will.    So,  like  the  cava 
liers 

Whose  voices  still  are  heard  in  the 
Romance 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


Of  r.ilver-tongued  Boccaccio,  on  the 
banks 

Of  Arno,  with  soft  tales  of  love  be 
guiling 

The  ear  of  languid  beauty,  plague- 
exiled 

From  stately  Florence,  we  rehearsed 
our  rhymes 

To  their  fair  auditor,  and  shared  by 
turns 

Her  kind  approval  and  her  playful 
censure. 

It  may  be  that  these  fragments  owe 
alone 

To  the  fair  setting  of  their  circum 
stances, — 

The  associations  of  time,  scene,  and 
audience, — 

Their  place  amid  the  pictures  which 
fill  up 

The  chambers  of  my  memory.  Yet 
I  trust 

That  some,  who  sigh,  while  wander 
ing  in  thought, 

Pilgrims  of  Romance  o'er  the  olden 
world, 

That  our  broad  land, — our  sea-like 
lakes  and  mountains 

Piled  to  the  clouds, — our  rivers  over 
hung 

By  forests  which  have  known  no 
other  change 

For  ages,  than  the  budding  and  the 
fall 

Of  leaves, — our  valleys  lovelier  than 
those 

Which  the  old  poets  sang  of, — should 
but  figure 

On  the  apocryphal  chart  of  specula 
tion 

As  pastures,  wood-lots,  mill-sites, 
with  the  privileges, 

Rights,  and  appurtenances,  which 
make  up 

A  Yankee  Paradise, — unsung,  un 
known, 

To  beautiful  tradition;  even  their 
names, 

Whose  melody  yet  lingers  like  the 
last 


Vibration  of  the  red  man's  requiem, 
Exchanged  for  syllables  significant 
Of  cotton-mill  and  rail-car,  will  look 

kindly 

Upon  this  effort  to  call  up  the  ghost 
Of  our   dim   Past,   and    listen    with 

pleased  ear 
To  the   responses  of  the  questioned 

Shade. 


I.      THE    MERRIMACK. 

O  CHILD  of  that  white-crested  moun 
tain  whose  springs 

Gush  forth  in  the  shade  of  the  cliff- 
eagle's  wings, 

Down  whose  slopes  to  the  lowlands 
thy  wild  waters  shine, 

Leaping  gray  walls  of  rock,  flashing 
through  the  dwarf  pine. 

From  that  cloud-curtained  cradle  so 

cold  and   so   lone, 
From  the  arms  of  that  wintry-locked 

mother  of  stone, 
By  hills  hung  with   forests,  through 

vales  wide  and  free, 
The  mountain-born  brightness  glanced 

down  to  the  sea ! 

No  bridge  arched  thy  water  save  that 

where  the  trees 
Stretched  their  long  arms  above  thee 

and  kissed  in  the  breeze ; 
No  sound  save  the  lapse  of  the  waves 

on  thy  shores, 
The  plunging  of  otters,  the  light  dip 

of  oars. 


Green-tufted,  oak-shaded,  by  Amos- 

keag's  fall 
Thy  twin  Uncanoonucs   rose    stately 

and  tall, 
Thy  Nashua  meadows  lay  green  arid 

unshorn, 
And  the  hills  of  Pentucket  were  tas- 

selled  with  corn. 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


But  thy  Pennacook  valley  was  fairer 
than  these, 

And  greener  its  grasses  and  taller  its 
trees, 

Ere  the  sound  of  an  axe  in  the  forest 
had  rung, 

Or  the  mower  his  scythe  in  the  mead 
ows  had  swung. 

In  their  sheltered  repose  looking  out 
from  the  wood 

The  bark-builded  wigwams  of  Penna 
cook  stood ; 

There  glided  the  corn-dance,  the 
council-fire  shone, 

And  against  the  red  war-post  the 
hatchet  was  thrown. 

There  the  old  smoked  in  silence  their 

pipes,  and  the  young 
To  the  pike  and  the  white-perch  their 

baited  lines  flung; 
There  the  boy  shaped  his  arrows,  and 

there  the  shy  maid 
Wove    her    many-hued    baskets    and 

bright  wampum  braid. 

O  Stream  of  the  Mountains!  if  an 
swer  of  thine 

Could  rise  from  thy  waters  to  ques 
tion  of  mine, 

Methinks  through  the  din  of  thy 
thronged  banks  a  moan 

Of  sorrow  would  swell  for  the  days 
which  have  gone. 

Not  for  thee  the  dul  jar  of  the  loom 

and  the  wheel, 
The  gliding  of  shuttles,   the  ringing 

of  steel; 
But  that  old  voice  of  waters,  of  bird 

and  of  breeze, 
The  dip  of  the  wild-fowl,  the  rustling 

of  trees! 


II.      THE  BASHABA. 

LIFT  we  the  twilight  curtains  of  the 

Past, 

And,    turning   from    familiar    sight 
and  sound, 


Sadly    and    full  of    reverence    let  us 

cast 
A  glance  upon  Tradition's  shadowy 

ground, 
Led  by  the   few  pale  lights    which, 

glimmering   round 
That    dim,    strange    land    of    Eld, 

seem  dying  fast; 
And  that  which  history  gives  not  to 

the  eye, 

The  faded  coloring  of  Time's  tapes 
try, 
Let    Fancy,    with    her    dream-dipped 

brush  supply. 

Roof  of  bark  and  walls  of  pine, 
Through  whose  chinks  the  sunbeams 

shine, 
Tracing  many  a  golden  line 

On  the  ample  floor  within; 
Where  upon  that  earth-floor  stark, 
Lay  the  gaudy  mats  of  bark, 
With  the  bear's  hide,  rough  and  dark, 

And  the  red-deer's  skin. 

Window-tracery,  small  and  slight, 
Woven  of  the  willow  white, 
Lent  a  dimly  checkered  light, 

And     the     night-stars     glimmered 

down, 

Where  the  lodge-fire's  heavy  smoke, 
Slowly  through  an  opening  broke, 
In  the  low  roof,  ribbed  with  oak, 

Sheathed  with  hemlock  brown. 

Gloomed  behind  the  changeless  shade, 
By  the  solemn  pine- wood  made ; 
Through  the  rugged  palisade, 

In  the  open  foreground  planted, 
Glimpses  came  of  rowers  rowing, 
Stir  of  leaves  and  wild-flowers  blow 
ing, 
Steel-like  gleams  of  water  flowing, 

In  the  sunlight  slanted. 

Here  the  mighty  Bashaba, 

Held  his  long-unquestioned  sway, 

From  the  White  Hills,  far  away, 

To  the  great  sea's  sounding  shore: 
Chief  of  chiefs,  his  regal  word 
All  the  river  Sachems  heard, 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


At  his  call  the  war-dance  stirred, 
Or  was  still  once  more. 

There  his  spoils  of  chase  and  war, 
Jaw  of  wolf  and  black  bear's  paw, 
Panther's  skin  and  eagle's  claw, 

Lay  beside  his  axe  and  bow; 
And,  adown  the   roof-pole  hung, 
Loosely  on  a  snake-skin  strung, 
In  the  smoke  his  scalp-locks  swung 

Grimly  to  and  fro. 

Nightly  down  the  river  going, 
Swifter  was  the  hunter's  rowing, 
When  he  saw  that  lodge-fire  glowing 

O'er  the  waters  still  and  red; 
And    the   squaw's   dark   eye    burned 

brighter, 

And  she  drew  her  blanket  tighter, 
As,  with  quicker  step  and  lighter, 

From  that  door  she  fled. 

For  that  chief  had  magic  skill, 
And  a  Panisee's  dark  will, 
Over  powers  of  good  and  ill, 

Powers  which    bless    and    powers 

which  ban, — 

Wizard  lord  of  Pennacook. 
Chiefs  upon  their  war-path  shook, 
When  they  met  the  steady  look 

Of  that  wise  dark  man. 

Tales  of  him  the  gray  squaw  told, 
When  the  winter  night-wind  cold 
Pierced  her  blanket's  thickest  fold, 

And  the  fire  burned  low  and  small, 
Till  the  very  child  abed, 
Drew  its  bear-skin  over   head, 
Shrinking  from  the  pale  lights  shed 

On  the  trembling  wall. 

All  the  subtle  spirits  hiding 
Under  earth  or  wave,  abiding 
In  the  caverned  rock,  or  riding 

Misty  clouds  or  morning  breeze; 
Every    dark    intelligence, 
Secret  soul,  and  influence 
Of  all  things  which  outward  sense 

Feels,  or  hears,  or  sees, — 


These  the  wizard's  skill  confessed, 
At  his  bidding  banned  or  blessed, 
Stormful  woke  or  lulled  to  rest 

Wind  and  cloud,  and  fire  and  flood ; 
Burned  for  him  the  drifted  snow, 
Bade  through  ice  fresh  lilies  blow, 
And  the  leaves  of  summer  grow 

Over  winter's  wood! 


Not  untrue  that  tale  of  old! 
Now,  as  then,  the  wise  and  bold 
All  the  powers  of  Nature  hold 

Subject  to  their  kingly  will; 
From  the  wandering  crowds  ashore, 
Treading  life's  wild  waters  o'er, 
As  upon  a  marble  floor, 

Moves  the   strong  man   still. 

Still,  to  such,  life's  elements 
With  their  sterner  laws  dispense, 
And  the  chain  of  consequence 

Broken  in  their  pathway  lies ; 
Time  and  change  their  vassals  mak 
ing, 

Flowers  from  icy  pillows  waking, 
Tresses  of  the  sunrise  shaking 

Over  midnight  skies. 

Still,  to  earnest  souls,  the  sun 
Rests  on  towered  Gibeon, 
And  the  moon  of  Ajalon 

Lights  the  battle-grounds  of  life ; 
To  his  aid  the  strong  reverses 
Hidden  powers  and  giant  forces, 
And  the  high  stars,  in  their  courses, 

Mingle  in  his  strife! 


III.      THE    DAUGHTER. 

THE  soot-black  brows  of  men, — the 

yell 
Of  women  thronging   round  the 

bed,— 
The   tinkling   charm    of    ring    and 

shell,— 
The  Powah  whispering  o'er  the 

dead  !— 
All  these  the  Sachem's  home  had 

known, 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


When,  on  her  journey  long  and 

wild 

To  the  dim  World  of  Souls,  alone, 
In     her     young    beauty    passed    the 
mother  of  his  child. 

Three  bow-shots  from  the  Sachem's 

dwelling 

They  laid  her  in  the  walnut  shade, 
Where  a  green  hillock  gently  swell 
ing 

Her  fitting  mound  of  burial  made. 
There  trailed  the  vine  in  summer 

hours, 
The  tree-perched  squirrel  dropped 

his  shell, — 
On     velvet     moss    and    pale-hued 

flowers, 

Woven  with  leaf  and  spray,  the  soft 
ened  sunshine   fell ! 


The   Indian's   heart    is    hard    and 

cold, — 

It  closes  darkly  o'er  its  care, 
And  formed  in    Nature's    sternest 

mould, 

Is  slow  to  feel,  and  strong  to  bear. 
The    war-paint    on    the    Sachem's 

face, 
Unwet  with  tears,    shone    fierce 

and  red, 

And,  still  in  battle  or  in  chase, 
Dry  leaf  and   snow-rime  crisped  be 
neath  his  foremost  tread. 

Yet  when  her  name  was  heard  no 

more, 
And  when  the  robe  her  mother 

gave, 

And  small,  light  moccasin  she  wore, 

Had  slowly  wasted  on  her  grave, 

Unmarked  of  him  the  dark  maids 

sped 
Their  sunset  dance  and  moonlit 

play; 

No  other  shared  his  lonely  bed, 
No  other  fair  young  head  upon  his 
bosom  lay. 

A  lone,  stern  man.     Yet,  as  some 
times 


The  tempest-smitten  tree  receives 
From  one  small  root  the  sap  which 

climbs 
Its  topmost  spray  and  crowning 

leaves, 

So  from  his  child  the  Sachem  drew 

A  life  of  Love  and  Hope,  and  felt 

His  cold  and  rugged  nature  through 

The  softness  and  the  warmth  of  her 

young  being  melt. 

A  laugh   which  in    the    woodland 

rang 

Bemocking  April's  gladdest  bird, — 
A  light  and    graceful    form    which 

sprang 
To  meet  him  when  his  step  was 

heard, — 

Eyes  by  his  lodge-fire  flashing  dark, 
Small  fingers  stringing  bead  and 

shell 
Or    weaving    mats    of    bright-hued 

bark, — - 

With   these  the   household-god    had 
graced  his  wigwam  well. 

Child   of   the    forest !— strong    and 

free, 
Slight-robed,  with  loosely  flowing 

hair, 
She  swam  the  lake  or  climbed  the 

tree, 

Or  struck  the  flying  bird  in  air. 
O'er  the  heaped  drifts  of  winter's 

moon 

Her  snow-shoes  tracked  the  hun 
ter's  way; 

And  dazzling  in  the  summer  noon 
The  blade  of  her  light  oar  threw  off 
its  shower  of  spray ! 

Unknown  to  her  the  rigid  rule, 
The    dull    restraint,    the     chiding 

frown, 
The  weary  torture  of  the  school, 

The  taming  of  wild  nature  down. 
Her  only  lore,  the  legends  told 

Around  the  hunter's  fire  at  night ; 
Stars   rose  and   set,    and    seasons 
rolled, 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


27 


Flowers  bloomed  and  snow-flakes  fell, 
unquestioned  in  her  sight. 

Unknown  to  her  the  subtle  skill 
With  which    the    artist-eye    can 

trace 
In  rock  and  tree  and  lake  and  hill 

The  outlines  of  divinest  grace ; 
Unknown  the  fine  soul's  keen  un 
rest, 
Which   sees,  admires,  yet  yearns 

alway ; 

Too  closely  on  her  mother's  breast 
To  note  her  smiles  of  love  the  child 
of  Nature  lay ! 

It  is  enough  for  such  to  be 

Of  common,  natural  things  a  part, 
To  feel,  with  bird  and  stream  and 

tree, 
The    pulses    of    the    same    great 

heart ; 

But  we,  from  Nature  long  exiled 
In  our   cold  homes    of  Art   and 

Thought, 
Grieve     like     the     stranger-tended 

child, 

Which  seeks  its  mother's  arms,  and 
sees  but  feels  them  not. 

The  garden  rose  may  richly  bloom 

In  cultured  soil  and  genial  air, 
To    cloud    the    light    of    Fashion's 

room 
Or   droop   in   Beauty's   midnight 

hair; 

In  lonelier  grace,  to  sun  and  dew 
The  sweetbrier    on    the    hillside 

shows 

Its  single  leaf  and   fainter  hue, 
Untrained  and  wildly  free,  yet  still  a 
sister  rose! 

Thus  o'er  the  heart  of  Weetamoo 
Their  mingling  shades  of  joy  and 

ill 
The  instincts  of  her  nature  threw, — 

The  savage  was  a  woman  still. 
Midst     outlines     dim     of     maiden 

schemes, 

Heart-colored  prophecies  of  life, 
Rose  on  the  ground  of  her  young 
dreams 


The  light  of  a  new  home, — the  lover 
and  the  wife. 


IV.      THE    WEDDING. 

COOL  and  dark  fell  the  autumn  night, 
But    the    Bashaba's    wigwam    glowed 

with  light, 
For   down   from   its    roof    by   green 

withes  hung 
Flaring  and  smoking  the  pine-knots 

swung. 

And  along  the  river  great  wood-fires 
Shot    into    the   night   their   long   red 

spires, 

Showing  behind  the  tall,  dark  wood, 
Flashing  before  on  the  sweeping  flood. 

In  the  changeful  wind,  with  shimmer 

and  shade, 
Now   high,   now   low,   that    firelight 

played, 

On  tree-leaves  wet  with  evening  dews, 
On  gliding  water  and  still  canoes. 

The  trapper  that  night  on  Turee's 
brook, 

And  the  weary  fisher  on  Contoocook, 

Saw  over  the  marshes  and  through 
the  pine, 

And  down  on  the  river  the  dance- 
lights  shine. 

For  the  Saugus  Sachem  had  come  to 

woo 

The  Bashaba's  daughter  Weetamoo, 
And  laid  at  her  father's  feet  that  night 
His  softest  furs  and  wampum  white. 

From  the  Crystal  Hills  to  the  far 
southeast 

The  river  Sagamores  came  to  the 
feast ; 

And  chiefs  whose  homes  the  sea- 
winds  shook, 

Sat  down  on  the  mats  of  Pennacook. 

They  came  from  Sunapee's  shore  of 

rock, 
From  the  snowy  sources  of  Snooga- 

nock, 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


And  from  rough  Coos  whose    thick 

woods  shake 
Their  pine-cones  in  Umbagog  Lake. 

From  Ammonoosuc's  mountain  pass, 
Wild  as  his  home,  came  Chepewass ; 
And  the  Keenomps  of  the  hills  which 

throw 
Their  shade  on  the  Smile  of  Manito. 

With  pipes  of  peace  and  bows  un 
strung, 

Glowing  with  paint  came  old  and 
young, 

In  wampum  and  furs  and  feathers 
arrayed 

To  the  dance  and  feast  the  Bashaba 
made. 

Bird  of  the  air  and  beast  of  the  field, 
All  which  the  woods  and  waters 

yield, 

On  dishes  of  birch  and  hemlock  piled, 
Garnished  and  graced  that  banquet 

wild. 

Steaks   of  the  brown  bear   fat   and 

large 
From  the  rocky  slopes  of  the  Kear- 

sarge ; 
Delicate     trout      from      Babboosuck 

brook, 
And  salmon  speared  in  the  Contoo- 

cook; 

Squirrels  which  fed  where  nuts  fell 

thick 

In  the  gravelly  bed  of  the  Otternic, 
And   srrmll   wild-hens   in   reed-snares 

caught 
From     the    banks    of     Sondagardee 

brought ; 

Pike   and   perch    from   the    Suncook 

taken, 
Nuts  from  the  trees  of  the  Black  Hills 

shaken, 
Cranberries  picked  in  the  Squamscot 

bog, 
And  grapes  from  the  vines  of  Pisca- 

taquog: 


And,    drawn   from   that   great    stone 

vase  which  stands 
In    the    river    scooped    by   a    spirit's 

hands, 
Garnished  with   spoons   of  shell  and 

horn, 
Stood  the  birchen  dishes  of  smoking 

corn. 

Thus  bird  of  the  air  and  beast  of  the 

field, 
All  which  the  woods  and  the  waters 

yield, 

Furnished  in  that  olden  day 
The  bridal  feast  of  the  Bashaba. 

And  merrily  when  that  feast  was  done 
On  the  fire-lit  green  the  dance  begun, 
With  squaws'  shrill  stave,  and  deeper 

hum 
Of  old  men  beating  the  Indian  drum. 

Painted  and  plumed,  with  scalp-locks 

flowing, 
And  red  arms  tossing  and  black  eyes 

glowing, 

Now  in  the  light  and  now  in  the  shade 
Around  the  fires  the  dancers  played. 

The  step  was  quicker,  the  song  more 

shrill, 
And    the    beat    of    the    small    drums 

louder  still 

Whenever  within  the  circle  drew 
The  Saugus  Sachem  and  Weetamoo. 

The  moons  of  forty  winters  had  shed 
Their  snow  upon  that  chieftain's  head, 
And  toil  and  care,  and  battle's  chance 
Had  seamed  his  hard  dark  counte 
nance. 

A  fawn  beside  the  bison  grim, — 
Why  turns   the  bride's   fond  eye  on 

him, 

In  whose  cold  look  is  naught  beside 
The  triumph  of  a  sullen  pride? 

Ask  why  the  graceful  grape  entwines 
The  rough  oak  with  her  arm  of  vines ; 
And  why  the  gray  rock's  rugged  cheek 
The  soft  lips  of  the  mosses  seek: 


•;;:'.' |i!|!'i:i    : 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


29 


Why,  with  wise  instinct,  Nature  seems 
To  harmonize  her  wide  extremes, 
Linking  the  stronger  with  the  weak, 
The  haughty  with  the  soft  and  meek ! 


V.      THE    NEW    HOME. 

A  WILD  and  broken  landscape,  spiked 

with  firs, 

Roughening    the     bleak    horizon's 
northern  edge, 

Steep,     cavernous     hillsides,     where 

black  hemlock  spurs 
And    sharp,   gray   splinters   of   the 
wind-swept  ledge 

Pierced  the  thin-glazed  ice,  or  bris 
tling  rose, 

Where  the  cold  rim  of  the  sky  sunk 
down  upon  the  snows. 

And    eastward     cold,    wide    marshes 

stretched  away, 

Dull,  dreary  flats  without  a  bush  or 
tree, 

O'er-crossed    by    icy    creeks,    where 

twice  a  day 

Gurgled  the  waters  of  the  moon 
struck  sea; 

And    faint    with    distance    came    the 
stifled  roar, 

The   melancholy   lapse  of   waves  on 
the  low  shore. 

No  cheerful  village  with  its  mingling 

smokes, 

No  laugh  of  children  wrestling  in 
the  snow, 

No  camp-fire  blazing  through  the  hill 
side  oaks, 

No  fishers  kneeling  on  the  ice  be 
low; 

Yet  midst  all  desolate  things  of  sound 
and  view, 

Through     the     long     winter     moons 
smiled  dark-eyed  Weetamoo. 

Her  heart  had  found  a  home;    and 

freshly  all 
Its  beautiful  affections  overgrew 


Their   rugged   prop.     As    o'er    some 

granite  wall 

Soft  vine-leaves  open  to  the  mois 
tening  dew 

And   warm  bright   sun,  the  love  of 
that  young  wife 

Found  on  a  hard  cold  breast  the  dew 
and  warmth  of  life. 


The  steep  bleak  hills,  the  melancholy 

shore, 

The  long  dead  level  of  the  marsh 
between, 

A  coloring  of  unreal  beauty  wore 
Through  the  soft  golden  mist    of 
young  love  seen. 

For  o'er  those  hills    and  from  that 
dreary  plain, 

Nightly  she  welcomed  home  her  hun 
ter  chief  again. 

No  warmth   of  heart,  no  passionate 

burst  of  feeling 

Repaid    her   welcoming    smile   and 
parting  kiss, 

No   fond  and  playful   dalliance  half 

concealing, 

Under  the  guise  of  mirth,  its  ten 
derness  ; 

But,  in  their  stead,  the  warrior's  set 
tled  pride, 

And  vanity's  pleased  smile  with  hom 
age  satisfied. 


Enough  for  Weetamoo,  that  she  alone 
Sat  on  his  mat  and  slumbered  at 

his  side; 
That  he  whose    fame   to   her   young 

ear  had  flown 
Now  looked  upon  her  proudly  as 

his  bride; 
That   he   whose   name  the   Mohawk 

trembling  heard 
Vouchsafed  to  her  at  times  a  kindly 

look  or  word. 


For  she  had  learned  the  maxims  of 

her  race, 

Which  teach  the  woman  to  become 
a  slave 


30 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


And  feel  herself  the  pardonless  dis 
grace 

Of  love's  fond  weakness  in  the  wise 
and  brave, — 

The   scandal   and   the    shame    which 
they  incur, 

Who  give  to  woman  all  which  man 
requires  of  her. 


So  passed  the  winter  moons.      The 

sun  at  last 
Broke  link  by  link  the  frost  chain 

of  the  rills, 
And   the    warm    breathings     of    the 

southwest  passed 
Over  the  hoar  rime  of  the  Saugus 

hills ; 
The  gray  and  desolate  marsh  grew 

green  once  more, 
And  the  birch-tree's  tremulous  shade 

fell  round  the  Sachem's  door. 

Then  from  far  Pennacook  swift  run 
ners  came, 

With  gift  and  greeting  for  the  Sau 
gus  chief; 

Beseeching  him  in  the  great  Sachem's 

name, 

That,  with  the  coming  of  the  flower 
and  leaf, 

The  song  of  birds,  the  warm  breeze 
and  the  rain, 

Young    Weetamoo    might    greet    her 
lonely  sire  again. 

And  Winnepurkit  called  his  chiefs  to 
gether, 

And  a  grave  council  in  his  wigwam 
met, 

Solemn  and  brief  in  words,  consider 
ing  whether 
The  rigid  rules  of  forest  etiquette 

Permitted   Weetamoo    once   more   to 
look 

Upon   her    father's    face   and    green- 
banked  Pennacook. 

With    interludes    of    pipe-smoke    and 
strong  water, 


The  forest  sages  pondered,  and  at 

length, 

Concluded  in  a  body  to  escort  her 
Up   to  her  father's  home  of  pride 

and  strength, 
Impressing     thus     on     Pennacook    a 

sense 

Of    Winnepurkit's    power   and    regal 
consequence. 

So  through  old  woods  which  Aukee- 

tamit's  hand, 

A  soft  and  many-shaded  greenness 
lent, 

Over  high  breezy  hills,  and  meadow 

land 

Yellow  with  flowers,  the  wild  pro 
cession  went, 

Till,  rolling  down  its  wooded  banks 
between, 

A  broad,  clear  mountain  stream,  the 
Merrimack  was  seen. 


The  hunter  leaning  on  his  bow  un 
drawn, 

The  fisher  lounging  on  the  pebbled 
shores, 

Squaws  in  the  clearing  dropping  the 

seed-corn, 

Young  children  peering  through  the 
wigwam  doors, 

Saw  with  delight,  surrounded  by  her 
train 

Of  painted  Saugus  braves,  their  Wee 
tamoo  again. 


VI.      AT     PENNACOOK. 

THE  hills  are  dearest  which  our  child 
ish  feet 

Have  climbed  the  earliest;  and  the 
streams  most  sweet 

Are  ever  those  at  which  our  young 
lips  drank, 

Stooped  to  their  waters  o'er  the  grassy 
bamk: 

Midst     the     cold    dreary    sea-watch, 
..Home's  hearth-light 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


31 


Shines  round  the  helmsman  plunging 
through  the  night ; 

And  still,  with  inward  eye,  the  trav 
eller  sees 

In  close,  dark,  stranger  streets  his  na 
tive  trees. 

The  home-sick  dreamer's  brow  is 
nightly  fanned 

By  breezes  whispering  of  his  native 
land, 

And  on  the  stranger's  dim  and  dying 
eye 

The  soft,  sweet  pictures  of  his  child 
hood  lie. 


Joy  then  for  Weetamoo,  to  sit  once 

more 
A    child   upon    her    father's   wigwam 

floor! 
Once  more  with  her  old  fondness  to 

beguile 
From  his  cold  eye  the  strange  light 

of  a  smile. 


The  long  bright  days  of  summer 
swiftly  passed, 

The  dry  leaves  whirled  in  autumn's 
rising  blast, 

And  evening  cloud  and  whitening 
sunrise  rime 

Told  of  the  coming  of  the  winter 
time. 

But  vainly  looked,  the  while,  young 

Weetamoo, 
Down  the  dark  river  for  her  chief's 

canoe ; 
No   dusky   messenger    from     Saugus 

brought 
The  grateful  tidings  which  the  young 

wife  sought. 

At  length  a  runner  from  her  father 

sent, 
To  Winnepurkit's  sea-cooled  wigwam 

went : 
"  Eagle  of  Saugus, — in  the  woods  the 

dove 


Mourns  for  the  shelter  of  thy  wings 
of  love." 


But  the  dark  chief  of  Saugus  turned 

aside 
In  the   grim  anger   of  hard-hearted 

pride; 
"  I  bore  her  as  became  a  chieftain's 

daughter, 
Up    to   her   home  beside  the  gliding 

water. 


"If  now  no  more  a  mat  for  her  is 
found 

Of  all  which  line  her  father's  wig 
wam  round, 

Let  Pennacook  call  out  his  warrior 
train, 

And  send  her  back  with  wampum 
gifts  again." 

The  baffled  runner  turned  upon  his 
track, 

Bearing  the  words  of  Winnepurkit 
back. 

"Dog  of  the  Marsh,"  cried  Penna 
cook,  "  no  more 

Shall  child  of  mine  sit  on  his  wigwam 
floor. 

"  Go, — let   him     seek    some    meaner 

squaw  to  spread 
The  stolen  bear-skin  of  his  beggar's 

bed: 
Son  of  a  fish-hawk! — let  him  dig  his 

clams 
For  some  vile  daughter  of  the  Aga- 

wams, 

"  Or     coward     Nipmucks  ! — may    his 

scalp  dry  black 
In  Mohawk  smoke,  before  I  send  her 

back." 
He  shook  his  clenched  hand  towards 

the  ocean  wave, 
While    hoarse    assent     his     listening 

council  gave. 

Alas,  poor  bride! — can  thy  grim  sire 
impart 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


His  iron    hardness    to    thy  woman's 

heart  ? 
Or  cold  self-torturing  pride  like  his 

atone 
For    love    denied    and    life's    warm 

beauty  flown? 

On    Autumn's    gray    and    mournful 

grave  the  snow 
Hung  its  white  wreaths;  with  stifled 

voice  and  low 
The  river  crept,  by  one  vast  bridge 

o'ercrossed, 
Built  by  the   hoar-locked  artisan  of 

Frost. 

And  many  a  Moon  in  beauty  newly 

born 
Pierced  the  red  sunset  with  her  silver 

horn, 
Or,  from  the  east,  across  her  azure 

field 
Rolled  the  wide   brightness    of    her 

full-orbed  shield. 

Yet  Winnepurkit  came  not, — on  the 

mat 
Of  the  scorned  wife  her  dusky  rival 

sat; 
And  he,  the  while,  in  Western  woods 

afar, 
Urged   the   long   chase,   or  trod   the 

path  of  war. 

Dry  up  thy  tears,  young  daughter  of 

a  chief ! 
Waste  not  on  him  the  sacredness  of 

grief ; 
Be  the  fierce  spirit  of  thy  sire  thine 

own, 
His   lips  of  scorning,  and  his   heart 

of  stone. 


What  heeds  the  warrior  of  a  hundred 

fights, 
The     storm-worn    watcher     through 

long  hunting  nights, 
Cold,  crafty,  proud  of  woman's  weak 

distress, 
Her   home-bound   grief    and    pining 

loneliness  ? 


VII.      THE   DEPARTURE. 

THE  wild  March  rains  had  fallen  fast 
and  long 

The  snowy  mountains  of  the  North 
among, 

Making  each  vale  a  watercourse, — 
each  hill 

Bright  with  the  cascade  of  some  new- 
made  rill. 

Gnawed  by  the  sunbeams,  softened  by 

the  rain, 
Heaved   underneath   by   the    swollen 

current's  strain, 
The  ice-bridge  yielded,  and  the  Mer- 

rimack 
Bore  the  huge  ruin  crashing  down  its 

track. 

On  that  strong  turbid  water,  a  small 

boat 
Guided  by  one  weak  hand  was  seen 

to  float; 
Evil  the  fate  which  loosed  it  from  the 

shore, 
Too  early  voyager  with  too  frail  an 

oar! 

Down  the  vexed  centre  of  that  rush 
ing  tide, 

The  thick  huge  ice-blocks  threatening 
either  side, 

The  foam-white  rocks  of  Amoskeag 
in  view, 

With  arrowy  swiftness  sped  that  light 
canoe. 

The  trapper,  moistening  his  moose's 

meac 
On   the   wet  bank   by   Uncanoonuc's 

feet, 
Saw   the   swift  boat  flash  down  the 

troubled  stream — 
Slept  he,  or  waked  he? — was  it  truth 

or  dream? 

The  straining  eye  bent  fearfully  be 
fore, 

The  small  hand  clenching  on  the  use 
less  oar, 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


33 


The  bead-wrought  blanket  trailing 
o'er  the  water — 

He  knew  them  all — woe  for  the  Sa 
chem's  daughter. 

Sick  and  aweary  of  her  lonely  life, 
Heedless  of  peril  the  still  faithful  wife 
Had  left  her  mother's  grave,  her  fa 
ther's  door, 

To  seek  the  wigwam  of  her  chief 
once  more. 

Down  the  white   rapids   like  a   sere 

leaf  whirled, 
On  the  sharp  rocks  and  piled-tip  ices 

hurled, 

Empty  and  broken,  circled  the  canoe 
In  the  vexed  pool  below — but,  where 

was  Weetamoo  ? 


VIII.      SONG  OF  INDIAN   WOMEN. 

THE  Dark  eye  has  left  us, 

The  Spring-bird  has  flown ; 
On  the  pathway  of  spirits 

She  wanders  alone. 
The  song  of  the  wood-dove  has  died 

on  our  shore, — 

Mat  wonck  kunna-monee! — We  hear 
it  no  more ! 

O,  dark  water  Spirit! 

We  cast  on  thy  wave 
These  furs  which  may  never 

Hang  over  her  grave; 
Bear  down  to  the  lost  one  the  robes 

that  she  wore, — 

Mat   zvonck    kunna-monee! — We    see 
her  no  more ! 

Of  the  strange  land  she  walks  in 
No  Powah  has  told: 


It  may  burn  with  the  sunshine, 

Or   freeze  with  the  cold. 
Let  us  give  to  our  lost  one  the  robes 

that  she  wore, 

Mat  wonck   kunna-monee! — We    see 
her  no  more! 

The  path  she  is  treading 

Shall  soon  be  our  own; 
Each  gliding  in  shadow 
Unseen   and  alone ! — 
In  vain  shall   we  call  on  the   souls 

gone  before, — 

Mat     wonck     kunna-monee!  —  They 
hear  us  no  more ! 

O  mighty  Sowanna ! 

Thy  gateways  unfold, 
From  thy  wigwam  of  sunset 

Lift  curtains  of  gold ! 
Take   home   the    poor    Spirit    whose 

journey  is  o'er, — 

Mat   wonck   kunna-monee! — We    see 
her  no  more ! 

So  sang  the  Children  of  the  Leaves 
beside 

The  broad,  dark  river's  coldly-flow 
ing  tide, 

Now  low,  now  harsh,  with  sob-like 
pause  and  swell, 

On  the  high  wind  their  voices  rose 
and  fell. 

Nature's  wild  music, — sounds  of 
wind-swept  trees, 

The  scream  of  birds,  the  wailing  of 
the  breeze, 

The  roar  of  waters,  steady,  deep,  and 
strong, — 

Mingled  and  murmured  in  that  fare 
well  song. 


34 


LEGENDARY. 


LEGENDARY,  1846. 


THE  MERRIMACK. 

["The  Indians  speak  of  a  beautiful  river, 
far  to  the  south,  which  they  call  Merrimack." 
— SIEUR  DE  MONTS:  1604. J 

STREAM  of  my  fathers!  sweetly  still 
The  sunset  rays  thy  valley  fill; 
Poured  slantwise  down  the  long  de 
file, 
Wave,  wood,  and  spire  beneath  them 

smile. 

I  see  the  winding  Powow  fold 
The  green  hill  in  its  belt  of  gold, 
And  following  down  its  wavy  line, 
Its  sparkling  waters  blend  with  thine. 
There's  not  a  tree  upon  thy  side, 
Nor  rock,  which  thy  returning  tide 
As  yet  hath  left  abrupt  and  stark 
Above  thy  evening  water-mark; 
No  calm  cove  with  its  rocky  hem, 
No  isle  whose  emerald  swells  begem 
Thy  broad,   smooth   current ;     not   a 

sail 

Bowed  to  the  freshening  ocean  gale; 
No  small  boat  with  its  busy  oars, 
Nor  gray  wall  sloping  to  thy  shores ; 
Nor  farm-house  with  its  maple  shade, 
Or  rigid  poplar  colonnade, 
But  lies  distinct  and  full  in  sight, 
Beneath  this  gush  of  sunset  light. 
Centuries  ago,  that  harbor-bar, 
Stretching  its  length  of  foam  afar, 
And    Salisbury's    beach    of    shining 

sand, 
And  yonder  island's  wave-smoothed 

strand, 

Saw  the  adventurer's  tiny  sail 
Flit,  stooping  from  the  eastern  gale; 
And    o'er    these    woods    and   waters 

broke 
The  cheer  from  Britain's    hearts    of 

oak, 

As  brightly  on  the  voyager's  eye, 
Weary  of  forest,  sea,  and  sky, 
Breaking  the  dull  continuous  wood, 


The    Merrimack     rolled     down     his 

flood; 

Mingling  that  clear  pellucid  brook, 
Which  channels  vast  Agioochook 
When  spring-time's  sun  and  shower 

unlock 

The  frozen  fountains  of  the  rock, 
And  more  abundant  waters  given 
From  that  pure  lake,  "  The  Smile  of 

Heaven," 

Tributes  from    vale    and    mountain 
side, — 
With  ocean's  dark,  eternal  tide' 

On  yonder  rocky  cape,  which  braves 
The  stormy  challenge  of  the  waves, 
Midst  tangled  vine  and  dwarfish 

wood, 

The  hardy  Anglo-Saxon  stood, 
Planting  upon  the  topmost  crag 
The  staff  of  England's  battle-flag; 
And,  while  from  out  its  heavy  fold 
Saint  George's  crimson  cross  unrolled, 
Midst  roll  of  drum  and  trumpet  blare, 
And  weapons  brandishing  in  air, 
He  gave  to  that  lone  promontory 
The  sweetest  name  in  all  his  story; 
Of  her,  the  flower  of  Islam's  daugh 
ters, 
Whose   harems    look   on    Stamboul's 

waters, — • 
Who,  when  the  chance  of  war  had 

bound 

The  Moslem  chain  his  limbs  around, 
Wreathed  o'er  with  silk  that  iron 

chain, 
Soothed  with  her  smiles  his  hours  of 

pain, 

And  fondly  to  her  youthful  slave 
A  dearer  gift  than  freedom  gave 


But  look! — the  yellow  light  no  more 
Streams  down  on  wave  and  verdant 

shore ; 

And  clearly  on  the  calm  air  swells 
The  twilight  voice  of  distant  bells. 


THE  NORSEMEN. 


35 


From  Ocean's  bosom,  white  and  thin, 
The  mists  come  slowly  rolling  in; 
Hills,  woods,  the  river's  rocky  rim, 
Amidst  the  sea-like  vapor  swim, 
While  yonder  lonely  coast-light,  set 
Within  its   wave-washed  minaret, 
Half  quenched,  a  beamless  star  and 

pale, 
Shines  dimly  through  its  cloudy  veil ! 

Home  of  my  fathers ! — I  have  stood 
Where  Hudson  rolled  his  lordly 

flood: 

Seen  sunrise  rest  and  sunset  fade 
Along  his  frowning   Palisade; 
Looked  down  the  Appalachian  peak 
On  Juniata's  silver  streak; 
Have  seen  along  his  valley  gleam 
The  Mohawk's  softly  winding  stream ; 
The  level  light  of  sunset  shine 
Through    broad    Potomac's    hem    of 

pine; 

And  autumn's  rainbow-tinted  banner 
Hang  lightly  o'er   the   Susquehanna ; 
Yet,  wheresoe'er  his  step  might  be, 
Thy  wandering  child  looked  back  to 

Thee! 

Heard  in  his  dreams  thy  river's  sound 
Of  murmuring  on  its  pebbly  bound, 
The  unforgotten  swell  and  roar 
Of  waves  on  thy  familiar  shore; 
And  saw,  amidst  the  curtained  gloom 
And  quiet  of  his  lonely  room, 
Thy  sunset  scenes  before  him  pass ; 
As,  in  Agrippa's  magic  glass, 
The  loved  and  lost  arose  to  view, 
Remembered    groves      in     greenness 

grew, 
Bathed   siill   in  childhood's   morning 

dew, 

Along  whose  bowers  of  beauty  swept 
Whatever  Memory's  mourners  wept, 
Sweet  faces,  which  the  charnel  kept, 
Young,  gentle  eyes,  which  long  had 

slept ; 

And  while  the  gazer  leaned  to  trace, 
More  near,  some  dear  familiar  face, 
He  wept  to  find  the  vision  flown, — 
A  phantom  and  a  dream  alone! 


THE  NORSEMEN. 

GIFT  from  the  cold  and  silent  Past ! 

A  relic  to  the  present  cast; 

Left  on  the  ever-changing  strand 

Of  shifting  and  unstable  sand, 

Which  wastes  beneath  the  steady 
chime 

And  beating  of  the  waves  of  Time ! 

Who  from  its  bed  of  primal  rock 

First  wrenched  thy  dark,  unshapely 
block? 

Whose  hand,  of  curious  skill  un 
taught, 

Thy  rude  and  savage  outline  wrought  ? 

The  waters  of  my  native  stream 
Are  glancing  in  the  sun's  warm  beam : 
From  sail-urged  keel  and  flashing  oar 
The  circles  widen  to  its  shore; 
And  cultured  field  and  peopled  town 
Slope  to  its  willowed  margin  down. 
Yet,    while    this    morning    breeze     is 

bringing 
The  home-life  sound  of  school-bells 

ringing, 

And  rolling  wheel,  and  rapid  jar 
Of  the  fire-winged  and  steedless  car. 
And  voices  from  the  wayside  near 
Come  quick  and  blended  on  my  ear, 
A  spell  is  in  this  old  gray  stone, — 
My  thoughts  are  with  the  Past  alone ! 

A    change! — the    steepled    town   no 

more 
Stretches     along     the      sail-thronged 

shore ; 

Like  palace-domes  in  sunset's  cloud, 
Fade    sun-gilt     spire     and     mansion 

proud : 

Spectrally  rising  where  they  stood, 
I  see  the  old,  primeval  wood : 
Dark,  shadow-like,  on  either  hand 
I  see  its  solemn  waste  expand : 
It  climbs  the  green  and  cultured  hill, 
It  arches  o'er  the  valley's  rill ; 
And   leans    from    cliff   and   crag,   to 

throw 

Its  wild  arms  o'er  the  stream  below. 
Unchanged,    alone,    the    same   bright 

river 


36 


LEGENDARY. 


Flows  on,  as  it  will  flow  forever ! 
I  listen,  and  I  hear  the  low 
Soft  ripple  where  its  waters  go ; 
I  hear  behind  the  panther's  cry. 
The  wild-bird's  scream  goes  thrilling 

by, 

And  shyly  on  the  river's  brink 
The  deer  is  stooping  down  to  drink. 


But  hark ! — from  wood  and  rock  flung 

back, 
What   sound   comes    up   the    Merri- 

mack? 
What  sea-worn  barks  are  those  which 

throw 
The   light   spray  from   each   rushing 

prow? 
Have  they  not  in  the    North    Sea's 

blast 
Bowed   to   the   waves   the    straining 

mast  ? 

Their  frozen  sails  the  low,  pale  sun 
Of  Thule's  night  has  shone  upon; 
Flapped  by  the  sea-wind's  gusty  sweep 
Round  icy  drift,  and  headland  steep. 
Wild   Jutland's   wives   and   Lochlin's 

daughters 
Have  watched  them  fading  o'er  the 

waters, 
Lessening  through  driving  mist   and 

spray, 
Like  white-winged  sea-birds  on  their 

way ! 


Onward  they  glide, — and  now  I  view 
Their  iron-armed  and  stalwart  crew ; 
Joy  glistens  in  each  wild  blue  eye, 
Turned  to   green  earth  and  summer 

sky : 
Each  broad,  seamed  breast  has  cast 

aside 

Its  cumbering  vest  of  shaggy  hide; 
Bared  to  the  sun  and  soft  warm  air, 
Streams  back  the  Norsemen's  yellow 

hair. 

I  see  the  gleam  of  axe  and  spear, 
The  sound  of  smitten  shields  I  hear, 
Keeping  a  harsh  and  fitting  time 
To  Saga's  chant,  and  Runic  rhyme ; 
Such  lays  as  Zetland's  Scald  has  sung, 
His  gray  and  naked  isles  among; 


Or  muttered  low  at  midnight  hour 
Round  Odin's  mossy  stone  of  power. 
The  wolf  beneath  the  Arctic  moon 
Has  answered  to  that  startling  rune; 
The  Gael  has  heard  its  stormy  swell, 
The  light  Frank  knows  its  summons 

well; 

lona's  sable-stoled  Culdee 
Has  heard  it  sounding  o'er  the  sea, 
And   swept,  with    hoary    beard    and 

hair, 
His  altar's  foot  in  trembling  prayer! 

'T  is  past, — the  'wildering  vision  dies 
In  darkness  on  my  dreaming  eyes! 
The  forest  vanishes  in  air, — 
Hill-slope  and  vale  lie  starkly  bare; 
I  hear  the  common  tread  of  men, 
And  hum  of  work-day  life  again: 
The  mystic  relic  seems  alone 
A  broken  mass  of  common  stone; 
And  if  it  be  the  chiselled  limb 
Of  Berserker   or   idol   grim, — 
A  fragment  of  Valhalla's  Thor, 
The  stormy  Viking's  god  of  War, 
Or  Praga  of  the  Runic  lay, 
Or  love-awakening  Siona, 
I  know  not, — for  no  graven  line, 
Nor  Druid  mark,  nor  Runic  sign, 
Is  left  me  here,  by  which  to  trace 
Its  name,  or  origin,  or  place. 
Yet,  for  this  vision  of  the  Past, 
This  glance  upon  its  darkness  cast, 
My  spirit  bows  in  gratitude 
Before  the  Giver  of  all  good, 
Who  fashioned  so  the  human  mind, 
That,  from  the  waste  of  Time  behind 
A  simple  stone,  or  mound  of  earth, 
Can  summon  the  departed  forth; 
Quicken  the  Past  to  life  again, — 
The  Present  lose  in  what  hath  been, 
And  in  their  primal  freshness  show 
The  buried  forms  of  long  ago. 
As  if  a  portion  of  that  Thought 
By  which  the  Eternal  will  is  wrought, 
Whose  impulse  fills  anew  with  breath 
The  frozen  solitude  of  Death, 
To  mortal  mind  were  sometimes  lent, 


CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK. 


37 


To  mortal  musings  sometimes  sent, 
To  whisper — even  when  it  seems 
But  Memory's  fantasy  of  dreams — 


Through  the  mind's  waste  of  woe  and 

sin, 
Of  an  immortal  origin! 


CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK. 
1658. 

To  the  God  of  all  sure  mercies  let  my  blessing  rise  to-day, 
From  the  scoffer  and  the  cruel  He  hath  plucked  the  spoil  away, — 
Yea,  He  who  cooled  the  furnace  around  the  faithful  three, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  hath  set  His  handmaid  free! 

Last  night  I  saw  the  sunset  melt  through  my  prison  bars, 
Last  night  across  my  damp  earth-floor  fell  the  pale  gleam  of  stars; 
In  the  coldness  and  the  darkness  all  through  the  long  night-time, 
My  grated  casement  whitened  with  autumn's  early  rime. 

Alone,  in  that  dark  sorrow,  hour  after  hour  crept  by; 
Star  after  star  looked  palely  in  and  sank  adown  the  sky; 
No  sound  amid  night's  stillness,  save  that  which  seemed  to  be 
The  dull  and  heavy  beating  of  the  pulses  of  the  sea; 

All  night  I  sat  unsleeping,  for  I  knew  that  on  the  morrow 
The  ruler  and  the  cruel  priest  would  mock  me  in  my  sorrow, 
Dragged  to  their  place  of  market,  and  bargained  for  and  sold, 
Like  a  lamb  before  the  shambles,  like  a  heifer  from  the  fold! 

O,  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  was  there, — the  shrinking  and  the  shame1, 
And  the  low  voice  of  the  Tempter  like  whispers  to  me  came : 
"Why  sit'st  thou  thus  forlornly!"  the  wicked  murmur  said, 
"  Damp  walls  thy  bower  of  beauty,  cold  earth  thy  maiden  bed  ? 

"  Where  be  the  smiling  faces,  and  voices  soft  and  sweet, 
Seen  in  thy  father's  dwelling,  heard  in  the  pleasant  street? 
Where  be  the  youths  whose  glances,  the  summer  Sabbath  through, 
Turned  tenderly  and  timidly  unto  thy  father's  pew? 

"  Why  sit'st  thou  here,  Cassandra? — Bethink  thee  with  what  mirth 
Thy  happy  schoolmates  gather  around  the  warm  bright  hearth; 
How  the  crimson  shadows  tremble  on  foreheads  white  and  fair, 
On  eyes  of  merry  girlhood,  half  hid  in  golden  hair. 

"  Not  for  thee  the  hearth-fire  brightens,  not  for  thee  kind  words  are  spoken 
Not  for  thee  the  nuts  of  Wenham  woods  by  laughing  boys  are  broken, 
No  first-fruits  of  the  orchard  within  thy  lap  are  laid, 
For  thee  no  flowers  of  autumn  the  youthful  hunters  braid. 


38  LEGENDARY. 


"O,  weak,  deluded  maiden! — by  crazy  fancies  led, 

With  wild  and  raving  railers  an  evil  path  to  tread; 

To  leave  a  wholesome  worship,  and  teaching  pure  and  sound; 

And  mate  with  maniac  women,  loose-haired  and  sackcloth  bound. 

"  Mad  scoffers  of  the  priesthood,  who  mock  at  things  divine, 
Who  rail  against  the  pulpit,  and  holy  bread  and  wine; 
Sore  from  their  cart-tail  scourgings,  and  from  the  pillory  lame, 
Rejoicing  in  their  wretchedness,  and  glorying  in  their  shame. 

"  And  what  a  fate  awaits  thee? — a  sadly  toiling  slave, 
Dragging  the  slowly  lengthening  chain  of  bondage  to  the  grave! 
Think  of  thy  woman's  nature,  subdued  in  hopeless  thrall, 
The  easy  prey  of  any,  the  scoff  and  scorn  of  all !  " 

O,  ever  as  the  Tempter  spoke,  and  feeble  Nature's  fears 
Wrung  drop  by  drop  the  scalding  flow  of  unavailing  tears, 
I  wrestled  down  the  evil  thoughts,  and  strove  in  silent  prayer, 
To  feel,  O  Helper  of  the  weak!  that  Thou  indeed  wert  there! 

I  thought  of  Paul  and  Silas,  within  Philippi's  cell, 
And  how  from  Peter's  sleeping  limbs  the  prison-shackles  fell, 
Till  I  seemed  to  hear  the  trailing  of  an  angel's  robe  of  white, 
And  to  feel  a  blessed  presence  invisible  to  sight. 

Bless  the  Lord  for  all  his  mercies! — for  the  peace  and  love  I  felt, 
Like  dew  of  Hermon's  holy  hill,  upon  my  spirit  melt; 
When,  rt  Get  behind  me,  Satan!"  was  the  language  of  my  heart, 
And  I  felt  the  Evil  Tempter  with  all  his  doubts  depart. 

Slow  broke  the  gray  cold  morning;    again  the  sunshine  fell, 
Flecked  with  the  shade  of  bar  and  grate  within  my  lonely  cell ; 
The  hoar-frost  melted  on  the  wall,  and  upward  from  the  street 
Came  careless  laugh  and  idle  word,  and  tread  of  passing  feet. 

At  length  the  heavy  bolts  fell  back,  my  door  was  open  cast, 
And  slowly  at  the  sheriff's  side,  up  the  long  street  I  passed ; 
I  heard  the  murmur  round  me,  and  felt,  but  dared  not  see, 
How,  from  every  door  and  window,  the  people  gazed  on  me. 

And  doubt  and  fear  fell  on  me,  shame  burned  upon  my  cheek, 
Swam  earth  and  sky  around  me,  my  trembling  limbs  grew  weak: 
"O  Lord!  support  thy  handmaid;    and  from  her  soul  cast  out 
The  fear  of  man,  which  brings  a  snare, — the  weakness  and  the  doubt." 

Then  the  dreary  shadows  scattered,  like  a  cloud  in  morning's  breeze, 
And  a  low  deep  voice  within  me  seemed  whispering  words  like  these 
"  Though  thy  earth  be  as  the  iron,  and  thy  heaven  a  brazen  wall, 
Trust  still  His  loving-kindness  whose  power  is  over  all." 


CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK. 


Y/e  paused  at  length,  where  at  my  feet  the  sunlit  waters  broke 
On  glaring  reach  of  shining  beach,  and  shingly  wall  of  rock; 
1  he  merchant-ships  lay  idly  there,  in  hard  clear  lines  on  high, 
Tracing  with  rope  and  slender  spar  their  network  on  the  sky. 

And  there  were  ancient  citizens,  cloak-wrapped  and  grave  and  cold, 
And  grim  and  stout  sea-captains  with  faces  bronzed  and  old, 
And  on  his  horse,  with  Rawson,  his  cruel  clerk  at  hand, 
Sat  dark  and  haughty  Endicott,  the  ruler  of  the  land. 

And  poisoning  with  his   evil  words  the  ruler's   ready  ear, 
The  priest  leaned  o'er  his  saddle,  with  laugh  and  scoff  and  jeer; 
It  stirred  my  soul,  and  from  my  lips  the  seal  of  silence  broke, 
As  if  through  woman's  weakness  a  warning  spirit  spoke. 

I  cried,  "  The  Lord  rebuke  thee,  thou  smiter  of  the  meek, 
Thou  robber  of  the  righteous,  thou  trampler  of  the  weak! 
Go  light  the  dark,  cold  hearth-stones, — go  turn  the  prison  lock 
Of  the  poor  hearts  thou  hast  hunted,  thou  wolf  amid  the  flock!" 

Dark  lowered  the  brows  of  Endicott,  and  with  a  deeper  red 

O'er  Rawson's  wine-empurpled  cheek  the  flush  of  anger  spread; 

"  Good  people,"  quoth  the  white-lipped  priest,  "  heed  not  her  words  so  wild, 

Her  Master  speaks  within  her, — the  Devil  owns  his  child !  " 

But  gray  heads  shook,  and  young  brows  knit,  the  while  the  sheriff  read 
That  law  the  wicked  rulers  against  the  poor  have  made, 
Who  to  their  house  of  Rimmon  and  idol  priesthood  bring 
No  bended  knee  of  worship,  nor  gainful  offering. 

Then  to  the  stout  sea-captains  the  sheriff,  turning,  said, — 
"  Which  of  ye,  worthy  seamen,  will  take  this  Quaker  maid? 
In  the  Isle  of  fair  Barbadoes,  or  on  Virginia's  shore, 
You  may  hold  her  at  a  higher  price  than  Indian  girl  or  Moor." 

Grim  and  silent  stood  the  captains ;    and  when  again  he  cried, 
"  Speak   out,   my  worthy   seamen !  " — no   voice,  no   sign   replied ; 
But  I  felt  a  hard  hand  press  my  own,  and  kind  words  met  my  ear, — 
"  God  bless  thee,  and  preserve  thee,  my  gentle  girl  and  dear!  " 

A  weight  seemed  lifted  from  my  heart, — a  pitying  friend  was  nigh, 
I  felt  it  in  his  hard,  rough  hand,  and  saw  it  in  his  eye; 
And  when  again  the  sheriff  spoke,  that  voice,  so  kind  to  me, 
Growled  back  its  stormy  answer  like  the  roaring  of  the  sea, — 

*'  Pile  my  ship  with  bars  of  silver, — pack  with  coins  of  Spanish  gold, 
From  keel-piece  up  to  deck-plank,  the  roomage  of  her  hold, 
By  the  living  God  who  made  me! — I  would  sooner  in  your  bay 
Sink  ship  and  crew  and  cargo,  than  bear  this  child  away!" 


40  LEGENDARY. 


"Well  answered,  worthy  captain,  shame  on  their  cruel  laws!" 
Ran  through  the  crowd  in  murmurs  loud  the  people's  just  applause. 
"  Like  the  herdsman  of  Tekoa,  in  Israel  of  old, 
Shall  we  see  the  poor  and  righteous  again  for  silver  sold  ?  " 

I  looked  on     haughty  Endicott;    with  weapon  half-way  drawn, 
Swept  round  the  throng  his  lion  glare  of  bitter  hate  and  scorn; 
Fiercely  he  drew  his  bridle-rein,   and  turned   in   silence  back, 
And  sneering  priest  and  baffled  clerk  rode  murmuring  in  his  track. 

Hard  after  them  the  sheriff  looked,  in  bitterness  of  soul; 
Thrice  smote  his  staff  upon  the  ground,  and  crushed  his  parchment  roll, 
"  Good  friends,"  he  said,  "  since  both  have  fled,  the  ruler  and  the  priest, 
Judge  ye,  if  from  their  further  work  I  be  not  well  released." 

Loud  was  the  cheer  which,  full  and  clear,  swept  round  the  silent  bay, 
As,  with  kind  words  and  kinder  looks,  he  bade  me  go  my  way; 
For  He  who  turns  the  courses  of  the  streamlet  of  the  glen, 
And  the  river  of  great  waters,  had  turned  the  hearts  of  men. 


O,  at  that  hour  the  very  earth  seemed  changed  beneath  my  eye, 
A  holier  wonder  round  me  rose  the  blue  walls  of  the  sky, 
A  lovelier  light  on  rock  and  hill,  and  stream  and  woodland  lay, 
And  softer  lapsed  on  sunnier  sands  the  waters  of  the  bay. 


Thanksgiving  to  the  Lord  of  life! — to  Him  ?11  praises  be, 
Who  from  the  hands  of  evil  men  hath  set  his  handmaid  free; 
All  praise  to  Him  before  whose  power  the  mighty  are  afraid, 
Who  takes  the  crafty  in  the  snare,  which  for  the  poor  is  laid! 


Sing,  O  my  soul,  rejoicingly,  on  evening's  twilight  calm 
Uplift  the  loud  thanksgiving, — pour  forth  the  grateful  psalm; 
Let  all  dear  hearts  with  me  rejoice,  as  did  the  saints  of  old, 
When  of  the  Lord's  good  angel  the  rescued  Peter  told. 


And  weep  and  howl,  ye  evil  priests  and  mighty  men  of  wrong; 
The  Lord  shall  smite  the  proud,  and  lay  his  hand  upon  the  strong. 
Woe  to  the  wicked  rulers  in  his  avenging  hour! 
Woe  to  the  wolves  who  seek  the  flocks  to  raven  and  devour! 


But  let  the  humble  ones  arise, — the  poor  in  heart  be  glad, 
And  let  the  mourning  ones  again  with  robes  of  praise  be  clad. 
For  He  who  cooled  the  furnace,  and  smoothed  the  stormy  wave. 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  is  mighty  still  to  save! 


FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS. 


41 


FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE 
SOKOKIS. 

1756. 

AROUND  Sebago's  lonely  lake 
There  lingers  not  a  breeze  to  break 
The  mirror  which  its  waters  make. 

The  solemn  pines  along  its  shore, 
The  firs  which  hang  its  gray  rocks 

o'er, 
Are  painted  on  its  glassy  floor. 

The  sun  looks  o'er,  with  hazy  eye, 
The   snowy  mountain-tops   which   lie 
Piled  coldly  up  against  the  sky. 

Dazzling  and  white!  save  where  the 
bleak, 

Wild  winds  have  bared  some  splinter 
ing  peak, 

Or  snow-slide  left  its  dusky  streak. 

Yet  green  are  Saco's  banks  below, 
And  belts  of  spruce  and  cedar  show, 
Dark  fringing  round  those  cones  of 
snow. 

The   earth   hath   felt  the    breath    of 

spring, 

Though  yet  on  her  deliverer's  wing 
The  lingering  frosts  of  winter  cling. 

Fresh  grasses  fringe  the  meadow- 
brooks, 

And  mildly  from  its  sunny  nooks 
The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks. 

And  odors  from  the  springing  grass, 
The  sweet  birch  and  the  sassafras, 
Upon  the  scarce-felt  breezes  pass. 

Her  tokens  of  renewing  care 
Hath  Nature  scattered  everywhere, 
In  bud  and  flower,  and  warmer  air. 

But  in  their  hour  of  bitterness, 
What  reck  the  broken  Sokokis, 
Beside  their  slaughtered  chief,  of  this  ? 


The  turfs  red  stain  is  yet  undried, — 
Scarce  have  the  death-shot  echoes 

died 
Along   Sebago's  wooded  side : 

And  silent  now  the  hunters  stand, 
Grouped  darkly,  where  a  swell  of  land 
Slopes  upward  from  the  lake's  white 
sand. 

Fire  and  the  axe  have  swept  it  bare, 
Save  one  lone  beech,  unclosing  there 
Its  light  leaves  in  the  vernal  air. 

With   grave,    cold   looks,   all    sternly 

mute, 

They  break  the  damp  turf  at  its  foot, 
And  bare  its  coiled  and  twisted  root. 

They  heave  the  stubborn  trunk  aside, 
The   firm   roots    from   the   earth    di 
vide, — 

The   rent  beneath  yawns    dark    and 
wide. 

And  there  the  fallen  chief  is  laid, 
In  tasselled  garbs  of  skins  arrayed, 
And  girded  with  his  wampum-braid. 

The  silver  cross  he  loved  is  pressed 
Beneath  the  heavy  arms,  which  rest 
Upon  his  scarred  and  naked  breast. 

'Tis   done:   the   roots   are  backward 

sent, 

The  beechen-tree  stands  up  unbent, — 
The  Indian's  fitting  monument ! 

When  of  that  sleeper's  broken  race 
Their  green  and  pleasant    dwelling- 
place 

Which   knew  them  once,   retains  no 
trace; 

O,  long  may  sunset's  light  be  shed 
As  now  upon  that  beech's  head, — 
A  green  memorial  of  the  dead! 

There  shall  his  fitting  requiem  be, 
In  northern  winds,  that,  cold  and  free, 
Howl  nightly  in  that  funeral  tree. 


42 


LEGENDARY. 


To  their  wild  wail  the  waves  which 

break 

Forever  round  that  lonely  lake 
A  solemn  undertone  shall  make! 

And  who  shall  deem  the  spot  unblest, 
Where  Nature's  younger  children  rest, 
Lulled  on   their   sorrowing  mother's 
breast? 

Deem  ye  that  mother  loveth  less 
These  bronzed  forms  of  the  wilder 
ness 
She  foldeth  in  her  long  caress? 

As  sweet  o'er  them  her  wild-flowers 

blow, 

As  if  with  fairer  hair  and  brow 
The  blue-eyed  Saxon  slept  below. 

What  though  the  places  of  their  rest 
No  priestly  knee  hath  ever  pressed, — • 
No    funeral    rite    nor     prayer     hath 
blessed? 

What  though  the  bigot's  ban  be  there, 
And  thoughts  of  wailing  and  despair, 
And  cursing  in  the  place  of  prayer ! 

Yet  Heaven    hath    angels    watching 

round 

The  Indian's  lowliest  forest-mound, — 
And  they  have  made  it  holy  ground. 

There  ceases  man's   frail   judgment; 

all 

His  powerless  bolts  of  cursing  fall 
Unheeded  on  that  grassy  pall. 

O,  peeled,  and  hunted,  and  reviled, 
Sleep  on,  dark  tenant  of  the  wild! 
Great  Nature  owns  her  simple  child ! 

And  Nature's  God,  to  whom  alone 
The  secret  of  the  heart  is  known, — 
The  hidden  language  traced  thereon ; 

Who  from  its  many  cumberings 
Of    form    and    creed,   and    outward 

things, 
To  light  the  naked  spirit  brings; 


Not  with  our  partial  eye  shall  scan, 
Not  with  our  pride  and  scorn  shall 

ban, 
The  spirit  of  our  brother  man! 


ST.  JOHN. 
1647. 

"  To  the  winds  give  our  banner  ! 

Bear  homeward   again  !  " 
Cried  the  Lord  of  Acadia, 

Cried   Charles   of  Estienne, 
From  tjie  prow  of  his  shallop 

He  gazed,  as  the  sun, 
From  its  bed  in  the  ocean, 

Streamed  up  the  St.  John. 

O'er  the  blue  western  waters 

That  shallop  had  passed, 
Where  the  mists  of  Penobscot 

Clung  damp  on  her  mast. 
St.   Saviour  had  looked 

On  the  heretic  sail, 
As  the  songs  of  the  Huguenot 

Rose  on  the  gale. 

The  pale,  ghostly   fathers 

Remembered  her  well, 
And  had  cursed  her  while  passing, 

With  taper  and  bell, 
But  the  men  of  Monhegan, 

Of  Papists  abhorred, 
Had  welcomed  and  feasted 

The  heretic  Lord. 


They  had  loaded  his  shallop 

With  dun-fish  and  ball, 
With  stores  for  his  larder, 

And  steel  for  his  wall. 
Pemequid,  from  her  bastions 

And  turrets  of  stone, 
Had  welcomed  his  coming 

With  banner  and  gun. 

And  the  prayers  of  the  elders 
Had  followed  his  way, 

As  homeward  he  glided, 
Down   Pentecost   Bay. 


ST.  JOHN. 


43 


O,  well  sped  La  Tour ! 

For,  in  peril  and  pain, 
His  lady  kept  watch, 

For  his  coming  again. 

O'er  the  Isle  of  the  Pheasant 

The  morning  sun   shone, 
On  the  plane-trees  which  shaded 

The  shores  of  St.  John. 
"  Now,  why  from  yon  battlements 

Speaks  not  my  love! 
Why  waves  there  no  banner 

My  fortress  above?" 

Dark  and  wild,  from  his  deck 

St.  Estienne  gazed  about, 
On  fire-wasted  dwellings, 

And  silent  redoubt; 
From  the  low,  shattered  walls 

Which  the  flame  had  o'errun, 
There  floated  no  banner, 

There  thundered  no  gun! 

But  beneath  the  low  arch 

Of  its  doorway  there  stood 
A  pale  priest  of  Rome, 

In   his   cloak   and   his   hood. 
With   the  bound  of  a  lion, 

La  Tour  sprang  to  land, 
On  the  throat  of  the  Papist 

He  fastened  his  hand. 

"  Speak,  son  of  the  Woman 

Of  scarlet  and  sin ! 
What  wolf  has  been  prowling 

My  castle  within?  " 
From  the  grasp  of  the  soldier 

The   Jesuit   broke. 
Half  in  scorn,  half  in  sorrow, 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke: 

"  No  wolf,  Lord  of  Estienne, 

Has  ravaged  thy  hall, 
But  thy  red-handed  rival, 

With  fire,  steel,  and  ball! 
On  an  errand  of  mercy 

I   hitherward  came, 
While  the  walls  of  thy  castle 

Yet  spouted  with  flame. 


"  Pentagoet's  dark  vessels 

Were  moored  in  the  bay, 
Grim  sea-lions,  roaring 

Aloud  for  their  prey." 
"But  what  of  my  lady?" 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne: 
"  On  the  shot-crumbled  turret 

Thy  lady  was  seen : 

"  Half-veiled  in  the  smoke-cloud, 

Her  hand  grasped  thy  pennon, 
While  her  dark  tresses  swayed 

In  the  hot  breath  of  cannon! 
But  woe  to  the  heretic, 

Evermore   woe ! 
When  the  son  of  the  church 

And  the  cross  is  his  foe! 

"  In  the  track  of  the  shell, 

In  the  path  of  the  ball, 
Pentagoet  swept  over 

The  breach  of  the  wall! 
Steel  to  steel,  gun  to  gun, 

One  moment, — and  then 
Alone  stood  the  victor, 

Alone  with  his  men! 

"  Of  its  sturdy  defenders, 

Thy  lady  alone 
Saw  the  cross-blazoned  banner 

Float  over  St.  John." 
"  Let  the  dastard  look  to  it !  " 

Cried  fiery  Estienne, 
"Were  D'Aulney  King  Louis, 

I'd  free  her  again !  " 

"Alas  for  thy  lady! 

No  service  from  thee 
Is  needed  by  her 

Whom  the  Lord  hath  set  free: 
Nine  days,  in  stern  silence, 

Her  thraldom  she  bore, 
But  the  tenth  morning  came, 

And  Death  opened  her  door ! " 

As  if  suddenly  smitten 
La  Tour  staggered  back; 

His  hand  grasped  his  sword-hilt, 
His  forehead  grew  black. 


44 


LEGENDARY. 


He  sprang  on  the  deck 

Of  his  shallop  again. 
"  We  cruise  now  for  vengeance ! 

Give  way !  "  cried  Estienne. 

"  Massachusetts  shall  hear 

Of  the  Huguenot's  wrong, 
And  from  island  and  creekside 

Her  fishers   shall  throng! 
Pentagoet  shall  _  rue 

What  his  Papists  have  done, 
When  his  palisades  echo 

The  Puritan's  gun!" 

O,  the  loveliest  of  heavens 

Hung  tenderly  o'er  him, 
There  were  waves  in  the  sunshine, 

And  green  isles  before  him: 
But  a  pale  hand  was  beckoning 

The  Huguenot  on; 
And  in  blackness  and  ashes 

Behind  was  St.  John! 


PENTUCKET. 
1708. 

How  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town 
The  mellow  light  of  sunset  shone ! 
Each  small,  bright  lake,  whose  waters 

still 

Mirror  the  forest  and  the  hill, 
Reflected  from  its  waveless  breast 
The  beauty  of  a  cloudless   west, 
Glorious  as  if  a  glimpse  were  given 
Within  the  western  gates  of  heaven, 
Left,  by  the  spirit  of  the  star 
Of  sunset's  holy  hour,  ajar! 

Beside  the  river's  tranquil  flood 
The   dark  and  low-walled   dwellings 

stood, 

Where  many  a  rood  of  open  land 
Stretched  up  and  down  on  either  hand, 
With  corn-leaves  waving  freshly  green 
The  thick  and  blackened  stumps  be 
tween. 

Behind,  unbroken,  deep  and  dread, 
The  wild,  untravelled  forest  spread, 


Back  to  those  mountains,  white  and 

cold, 

Of  which  the  Indian  trapper  told,' 
Upon  whose  summits  never  yet 
Was  mortal  foot  in  safety  set. 

Quiet  and  calm,  without  a  fear 
Of  danger  darkly  lurking  near, 
The  weary  laborer  left  his  plough, — 
The  milkmaid  carolled  by  her  cow, — 
From    cottage    door    and    household 

hearth 
Rose  songs  of    praise,   or  tones    of 

mirth. 

At  length  the  murmur  died  away, 
And  silence  on  that  village  lay, — 
So  slept  Pompeii,  tower  and  hall, 
Ere  the  quick  earthquake  swallowed 

all, 

Undreaming  of  the  fiery  fate 
Which  made  its  dwellings  desolate ! 

Hours  passed  away.      By  moonlight 

sped 

The  Merrimack  along  his  bed. 
Bathed  in  the  pallid  lustre,  stood 
Dark  cottage-wall  and  rock  and  wood, 
Silent,  beneath  that  tranquil  beam, 
As  the  hushed  grouping  of  a  dream. 
Yet  on  the  still  air  crept  a  sound, — 
No  bark  of  fox,  nor  rabbit's  bound, 
Nor  stir  of  wings,  nor  waters  flowing. 
Nor  leaves  in  midnight  breezes  blow 
ing. 

Was  that  the  tread  of  many  feet, 
Which  downward  from  the  hillside 

beat? 
What  forms  were  those  which  darkly 

stood 

Just  on  the  margin  of  the  wood? — 
Charred  tree-stumps  in  the  moonlight 

dim, 

Or  paling  rude,  or  leafless  limb? 
No, — through  the  trees  fierce  eyeballs 

glowed 
Dark     human     forms    in    moonshine 

showed, 

Wild  from  their  native  wilderness, 
With  painted  limbs  and  battle-dress! 


THE  FAMILIST'S  HYMN. 


45 


A  yell  the  dead  might  wake  to  hear 
Swelled    on   the    night    air,    far   and 

clear, — 

Then  smote  the  Indian  tomahawk 
On    crashing    door    and     shattering 

lock,— 

Then  rang  the  rifle-shot,— and  then 
The  shrill  death-scream  of  stricken 

men, — 

Sank  the  red  axe  in  woman's  brain, 
And  childhood's  cry  arose  in  vain, — 
Bursting  through  roof  and    window 

came, 
Red,    fast,    and   fierce,    the    kindling 

flame ; 

And  blended  fire  and  moonlight  glared 
On  still  dead  men  and  weapons  bared. 

The    morning    sun    looked    brightly 

through 

The  river  willows,  wet  with  dew. 
No  sound  of  combat  filled  the  air, — 
No    shout   was   heard, — nor   gunshot 

there : 

Yet  still  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  smouldering  ruins  slowly 

broke ; 

And  on  the  greensward  many  a  stain, 
And,  here  and  there,  the  mangled 

slain, 

Told  how  that  midnight  bolt  had  sped, 
Pentucket,  on  thy  fated  head! 

Even  now  the  villager  can  tell 
Where   Rolfe  beside  his  hearthstone 

fell, 

Still  show  the  door  of  wasting  oak, 
Through  which  the  fatal  death-shot 

broke, 

And  point  the  curious  stranger  where 
De  Rouville's  corse  lay  grim  and 

bare, — 
Whose   hideous   head,   in   death   still 

feared, 

Bore  not  a  trace  of  hair  or  beard, — 
And  still,  within  the  churchyard 

ground, 

Heaves  darkly  up  the  ancient  mound, 
Whose  grass-grown  surface  overlies 
The  victims  of  that  sacrifice. 


THE  FAMILIST'S   HYMN. 

FATHER  !  to  thy  suffering  poor 

Strength  and  grace  and  faith  im 
part, 
And  with  thy  own  love  restore 

Comfort  to  the  broken  heart! 
O,  the  failing  ones  confirm 

With  a  holier  strength  of  zeal ! — 
Give  thou  not  the  feeble  worm 

Helpless  to  the  spoiler's  he^.l! 

Father!  for  thy  holy  sake 

We  are  spoiled  and  htfnted  thus; 
Joyful,  for  thy  truth  we  take 

Bonds  and  burthens  unto  us: 
Poor,  and  weak,  and  robbed  of  all, 

Weary  with  our  daily  task, 
That  thy  truth  may  never  fall 

Through  our  weakness,  L«rd,  we 
ask. 

Round  our  fired  and  wasted  homes 

Flits  the  forest-bird  unscared, 
And  at  noon  the  wild  beast  comes 

Where  our  frugal  meal  was  shared ; 
For  the  song  of  praises  there 

Shrieks  the  crow  the  livelong  day; 
For  the  sound  of  evening  prayer 

Howls  the  evil  beast  of  prey ! 

Sweet  the  songs  we  loved  to  sing 

Underneath  thy  holy  sky,— 
Words  and  tones  that  used  to  bring 

Tears  of  joy  in  every  eye, — 
Dear  the  wrestling  hours  of  prayer, 

When  we  gathered  knee  to  knee, 
Blameless  youth  and  hoary  hair, 

Bowed,  O  God,  alone  to  thee. 

As  thine  early  children,  Lord, 

Shared     their     wealth     and     daily 

bread, 
Even  so,  with  one  accord, 

We,  in  love,  each  other  fed. 
Not  with  us  the  miser's  hoard, 

Not  with  us  his  grasping  hand; 
Equal  round  a  common  board, 

Drew  our  meek  and  brother  band  I 


46 


LEGENDARY. 


Safe  our  quiet  Eden  lay 

When   the   war-whoop    stirred   the 

land 
And  the  Indian  turned  away 

From  our  home  his  bloody  hand. 
Well  that   forest-ranger   saw, 

That  the  burthen  and  the  curse 
Of  the  white  man's  cruel  law 

Rested  also  upon  us. 

Torn  apart,  and  driven  forth 

To  our  toiling  hard  and  long, 
Father!  from  the  dust  of  earth 

Lift  we  still  our  grateful  song! 
Grateful, — that  in  bonds  we  share 

In  thy  love  which  maketh  free ; 
Joyful, — that  the  wrongs  we  bear, 

Draw  us  nearer,  Lord,  to  thee ! 

Grateful ! — that  where'er  we  toil, — 

By  Wachuset's  wooded  side, 
On  Nantucket's   sea-worn  isle, 

Or  by  wild  Neponset's  tide, — 
Still,  in  spirit,  we  are  near, 

And  our  evening  hymns,  which  rise 
Separate  and  discordant  here, 

Meet  and  mingle  in  the  skies ! 

Let  the  scoffer  scorn  and  mock, 

Let  the  proud  and  evil  priest 
Rob  the  needy  of  his  flock, 

For  his   wine-cup  and  his   feast, — 
Redden  not  thy  bolts  in  store 

Through  the  blackness  of  thy  skies? 
For  the  sighing  of  the  poor 

Wilt  Thou  not,  at  length,  arise? 

Worn  and  wasted,  oh!  how  long 

Shall  thy  trodden  poor  complain? 
In  thy  name  they  bear  the  wrong, 

In  thy  cause  the  bonds  of  pain! 
Melt  oppression's  heart  of  steel, 

Let  the  haughty  priesthood  see, 
And  their  blinded  followers  feel, 

That  in  us  they  mock  at  Thee! 

In  thy  time,  O  Lord  of  hosts, 
Stretch  abroad  that  hand  to  save 

Which  of  old,  on  Egypt's  coasts, 
Smote  apart  the  Red  Sea's  wave ! 


Lead  us  from  this  evil  land, 
From  the  spoiler  set  us  free, 

And  once  more  our  gathered  band, 
Heart  to  heart,  shall  worship  thee! 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 

TRAVELLER!  on  thy  journey  toiling 

By  the  swift  Powow, 
With  the  summer  sunshine  falling 

On  thy  heated  brow, 
Listen,  while  all  else  is  still, 
To  the  brooklet  from  the  hill. 

Wild  and  sweet  the  flowers  are  blow 
ing 

By  that  streamlet's  side, 
And  a  greener  verdure  showing 

Where  its  waters  glide, — 
Down  the  hill-slope  murmuring  on, 
Over  root  and  mossy  stone. 

Where  yon  oak  his  broad  arms  fling- 

eth 

O'er  the  sloping  hill, 
Beautiful  and  freshly  springeth 

That  soft-flowing  rill, 
Through  its  dark  roots  wreathed  and 

bare, 
Gushing  up  to  sun  and  air. 

Brighter  waters  sparkled  never 

In  that  magic  well, 
Of  whose  gift  of  life  forever 

Ancient  legends  tell, — 
In  the  lonely  desert  wasted, 
And  by  mortal  lip  untasted. 

Waters  which  the  proud  Castilian 

Sought  with  longing  eyes. 
Underneath  the  bright  pavilion 

Of  the  Indian  skies; 
Where  his  forest  pathway  lay 
Through  the  blooms  of  Florida, 

Years  ago  a  lonely  stranger, 

With  the  dusky  brow 
Of  the  outcast  forest-ranger, 

Crossed  the  swift  Powpw; 
And  betook  him  to  the  rill 
And  the  oak  upon  the  hill. 


Have  ye  heard  of  our  hunting,  o'er  mountain  and  glen, 
Through  canebrake  and  forest— the  hunting  of  men  ? 


THE  EXILES. 


47 


O'er  his  face  of  moody  sadness 

For  an  instant  shone 
Something  like  a  gleam  of  gladness, 

As  he  stooped  him  down 
To  the  fountain's  grassy  side, 
And  his  eager  thirst  supplied. 

With  the  oak  its  shadow  throwing 

O'er  his  mossy  seat, 
And  the  cool,  sweet  waters  flowing 

Softly  at  his  feet, 
Closely  by  the  fountain's  rim 
That  lone  Indian  seated  him. 

Autumn's  earliest  frost  had  given 

To  the  woods  below 
Hues  of  beauty,  such  as  heaven 

Lendeth  to  its  bow ; 
And  the  soft  breeze  from  the  west 
Scarcely  broke  their  dreamy  rest. 

Far  behind  was  Ocean  striving 

With  his  chains  of  sand; 
Southward,  sunny  glimpses  giving, 

Twixt  the  swells  of  land, 
Of  its  calm  and  silvery  track, 
Rolled  the  tranquil  Merrimaek. 

Over  village,  wood,  and  meadow 

Gazed  that  stranger  man, 
Sadly,  till  the  twilight  shadow 

Over  all  things  ran, 
Save  where  spire  and  westward  pane 
Flashed  the  sunset  back  again. 

Gazing  thus  upon  the  dwelling 

Of  his  warrior  sires, 
Where  no  lingering  trace  was  telling 

Of  their  wigwam  fires, 
Who  the  gloomy  thoughts  might  know 
Of  that  wandering  child  of  woe? 

•Naked  lay,  in  sunshine  glowing, 

Hills  that  once  had  stood 
Down  their  sides  the  shadows  throw 
ing 

Of  a  mighty  wood, 
Where  the  deer  his  covert  kept, 
And  the  eagle's  pinion  swept ! 


Where  the  birch  canoe  had  glided 

Down  the  swift  Powow, 
Dark  and  gloomy  bridges  strided 

Those  clear  waters  now ; 
And  where  once  the  beaver  swana, 
Jarred   the   wheel    and   frowned   the 
dam. 

For  the  wood-bird's  merry  singing, 

And  the  hunter's  cheer, 
Iron  clang  and  hammer's  ringing 

Smote  upon  his  ear; 
And  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  the  blackened  forges  broke. 

Could  it  be  his  fathers  ever 

Loved  to  linger  here? 
These     bare     hills,     this     conquered 
river, — 

Could  they  hold  them  dear, 
With  their  native  loveliness 
Tamed  and  tortured  into  this? 

Sadly,  as  the  shades  of  even 

Gathered  o'er  the  hill, 
While  the  western  half  of  heaven 

Blushed  with  sunset  still, 
From  the  fountain's  mossy  seat 
Turned  the  Indian's  weary  feet. 

Year  on  year  hath  flown  forever, 

But  he  came  nc  more 
To  the  hillside  or  the  river 

Where  he  came  before. 
But  the  villager  can  tell 
Of  that  strange  man's  visit  well. 

And  the  merry  children,  laden 
With  their  fruits  or  flowers, — 

Roving  boy  and  laughing  maiden, 
In  their  school-day  hours, 

Love  the  simple  tale  to  tell 

Of  the  Indian  and  his  well. 


THE  EXILES. 
1660. 

THE  goodman  sat  beside  his  door 
One  sultry  afternoon, 


48 


LEGENDARY. 


With  his  young  wife  singing  at  his 

side 
An  old  and  goodly  tune. 

A  glimmer  of  heat  was  in  the  air ; 

The  dark  green  woods  were  still; 
And  the  skirts  of  a  heavy  thunder 
cloud 

Hung  over  the  western  hill. 

Black,  thick,  and  vast  arose  that  cloud 

Above  the  wilderness, 
As  some  dark  world  from  upper  air 

Were  stooping  over  this. 

At  times  the  solemn  thunder  pealed, 

And  all  was  still  again, 
Save  a  low  murmur  in  the  air 

Of  coming  wind  and  rain. 

Just  as  the  first  big  rain-drop  fell, 

A  weary  stranger  came, 
And  stood  before  the  farmer's  door, 

With  travel  soiled  and  lame. 

Sad  seemed  he,  yet  sustaining  hope 

Was  in  his  quiet  glance, 
And  peace,  like  autumn's  moonlight, 
clothed 

His  tranquil  countenance. 

A  look,  like  that  his  Master  wore 

In   Pilate's   council-hall : 
It  told  of  wrongs, — but  of  a  love 

Meekly  forgiving  all. 

"Friend!   wilt  thou  give  me  shelter 
here?" 

The  stranger  meekly  said; 
And,  leaning  on  his  oaken  staff, 

The  goodman's   features   read. 

"  My  life  is  hunted, — evil  men 
Are  following  in  my  track ; 

The  traces  of  the  torturer's  whip 
Are  on  my  aged  back. 

"And  much,  I  fear,  'twill  peril  thee 
Within  thy  doors  to  take 


A  hunted  seeker  of  the  Truth, 
Oppressed  for  conscience'   sake. 

O,  kindly  spoke  the  goodman's  wife, — 
"  Come  in,  old  man !  "  quoth  she, — 

"  We  will  not  leave  thee  to  the  storm, 
Whoever  thou  mayst  be." 

Then  came  the  aged  wanderer  in, 

And  silent  sat  him  down  ; 
While  all  within  grew  dark  as  night 

Beneath  the  storm-cloud's  frown. 

But  while  the  sudden  lightning's  blaze 
Filled  every  cottage  nook, 

And  with  the  jarring  thunder-roll 
The  loosened  casements  shook, 

A  heavy  tramp  of  horses'  feet 
Came  sounding  up  the  lane, 

And  half  a  score  of  horse,  or  more, 
Came  plunging  through  the  rain. 

"  Now,  Goodman  Macey,  ope  thy 
door, — 

We  would  not  be  house-breakers ; 
A  rueful  deed  thou'st  done  this  day, 

In  harboring  banished  Quakers." 

Out    looked    the    cautious    goodman 

then, 

With  much  of  fear  and  awe, 
For  there,  with  broad  wig  drenched 

with  rain, 
The  parish  priest  he  saw. 

"  Open  thy  door,  thou  wicked  man, 

And  let  thy  pastor  in, 
And  give  God  thanks,  if  forty  stripes 

Repay  thy  deadly  sin." 

"What  seek  ye?"  quoth  the  good 
man, — 

"  The  stranger  is  my  guest ; 
He   is   worn   with   toil   and   grievous 

wrong, — 
Pray  let  the  old  man  rest." 

"Now,  out  upon  thee,  canting  knave !" 
And  strong  hands  shook  the  door, 


INDEPENDENCE  HALL,  PHILADELPHIA. 

Go — if  thou  lov'st  such  fame,  and  share 
The  mad  Ephesian's  base  example — 

The  holy  bonds  of  UNION  tear. 
And  clap  the  torch  to  FREEDOM'S  temple! 


THE  EXILES. 


49 


"  Believe     me,     Macey,"     quoth     the 

priest,— 
"  Thou  'It  rue  thy  conduct  sore." 

Then  kindled  Macey's  eye  of  fire: 
"  No  priest  who  walks  the  earth, 

Shall  pluck  away  the  stranger-guest 
Made  welcome  to  my  hearth." 

Down  from  his  cottage  wall  he  caught 
The  matchlock,  hotly  tried 

At  Preston-pans  and  Marston-moor, 
By  fiery  Ireton's  side; 

Where  Puritan,  and  Cavalier, 

With  shout  and  psalm  contended; 

And   Rupert's   oath,   and   Cromwell's 

prayer, 
With  battle-thunder  blended. 


Up  rose  the  ancient  stranger  then : 

"  My  spirit  is  not  free 
To  bring  the  wrath  and  violence 

Of  evil  men  on  thee: 


"  And  for  thyself,  I  pray  forbear, — 
Bethink  thee  of  thy  Lord, 

Who  healed  again  the  smitten  ear, 
And  sheathed  his  follower's  sword. 

"I  go,  as  to  the  slaughter  led: 
Friends  of  the  poor,  farewell !  " 

Beneath  his  hand  the  oaken  door, 
Back  on  its  hinges  fell. 

"  Come  forth,  old  graybeard,  yea  and 
nay  " ; 

The  reckless  scoffers  cried, 
As  to  a  horseman's  saddle-bow 

The  old  man's  arms  were  tied. 

And  of  his  bondage  hard  and  long 

In  Boston's  crowded  jail, 
Where  suffering  woman's  prayer  was 
heard, 

With  sickening  childhood's  wail 

It  suits  not  with  our  tale  to  tell : 
Those  scenes  have  passed  away, — 


Let  the  dim  shadows  of  the  past 
Brood  o'er  that  evil  day. 

"  Ho,    sheriff ! "    quoth     the     ardent 
priest, — 

"  Take  Goodman  Macey  too ; 
The  sin  of  this  day's  heresy, 

His  back  or  purse  shall  rue." 

"  Now,  goodwife,  haste  thee !  "  Macey 
cried, 

She  caught  his  manly  arm : — 
Behind,  the  parson  urged  pursuit, 

With  outcry  and  alarm. 

Ho !    speed     the     Maceys,    neck    or 
naught, — 

The  river-course  was  near: — • 
The  plashing  on  its  pebbled  shore 

Was  music  to  their  ear. 

A  gray  rock,  tasselled  o'er  with  birch, 

Above  the  waters  hung, 
And  at  its  base,  with  every  wave, 

A  small  light  wherry  swung. 


A  leap— they  gain  the  boat— and  there 
The  goodman  wields  his  oar : 

"  111     luck     betide     them     all,"  —  he 

cried, — 
"The  laggards  upon  the  shore." 

Down    through    the  crashing  under 
wood, 

The  burly  sheriff  came : — 
"  Stand,  Goodman  Macey, — yield  thy 
self; 
Yield  in  the  King's  own  name.' 


"  Now     out     upon     thy    hangman's 
face!" 

Bold  Macey  answered  then, — • 
"  Whip  women,  on  the  village  green, 

But  meddle  not  with  men." 


The     priest    came    panting    to     the 

shore, — 
His  grave  cocked  hat  was  gone; 


50 


LEGENDARY. 


Behind   him,   like   some    owl's    nest, 

hung 
His  wig  upon  a  thorn. 

"  Come  back, — come  back !  "  the  par 
son  cried, 

"The  church's  curse  beware." 
"  Curse,  an'  thou  wilt,"  said  Macey, 

"but 
Thy  blessing  prithee  spare." 

"Vile    scoffer!"    cried     the     baffled 

priest,— 

"Thou 'It  yet  the  gallows  see." 
"  Who's  born  to  be  hanged,  will  not 

be  drowned," 
Quoth  Macey,  merrily; 

"And  so,  sir  sheriff  and  priest,  good 
by!" 

He  bent  him  to  his  oar, 
And  the  small  boat  glided  quietly 

From  the  twain  upon  the  shore. 

Now  in  the  west,  the  heavy  clouds 
Scattered  and  fell  asunder, 

While  feebler  came  the  rush  of  rain, 
And  fainter  growled  the  thunder. 

And  through  the  broken  clouds,  the 
sun 

Looked  out  serene  and  warm, 
Painting  its  holy  symbol-light 

Upon  the  passing  storm. 

O,  beautiful!  that  rainbow  span, 
O'er  dim  Crane-neck  was  bended  ; — 

One  bright  foot  touched  the  eastern 

hills, 
And   one  with  ocean  blended. 

By  green  Pentucket's  southern  slope 
The  small  boat  glided-  fast, — 

The  watchers  of  "the  Block-house  " 

saw 
The  strangers  as  they  passed. 

That  night  a  stalwart  garrison 
Sat  shaking  in  their  shoes, 


To  hear  the  dip  of  Indian  oars,— 
The  glide  of  birch  canoes. 

The  fisher-wives  of  Salisbury, 
(The  men  were  all  away,) 

Looked  out  to  see  the  stranger  oar 
Upon  their  waters  play. 

Deer-Island's      rocks     and     fir-trees 

threw 

Their  sunset-shadows  o'er  them, 
And  Newbury's    spire  and    weather 
cock 
Peered  o'er  the  pines  before  them. 

Around   the   Black   Rocks,   on    their 

left, 

The  marsh  lay  broad  and  green ; 
And  on  their  right,  with  dwarf  shrubs 

crowned, 
Plum  Island's  hills  were  seen. 

With  skilful  hand  and  wary  eye 
The  harbor-bar  was  crossed; — 

A  plaything  of  the  restless  wave, 
The  boat  on  ocean  tossed. 

The  glory  of  the  sunset  heaven 
On  land  and  water  lay, — 

On  the  steep  hills  of  Agawam, 
On  cape,  and  bluff,  and  bay. 

They  passed  the  gray  rocks  of  Cape 
Ann, 

And  Gloucester's  harbor-bar; 
The  watch-fire  of  the  garrison 

Shone  like  a  setting  star. 

How  brightly  broke  the  morning 

On  Massachusetts  Bay! 
Blue  wave,  and  bright  green  island, 

Rejoicing  in  the  day. 

On  passed  the  bark  in  safety 
Round  isle  and  headland  steep, — 

No  tempest  broke  above  them, 
No  fog-cloud  veiled  the  deep. 

Far  round  the  bleak  and  stormy  Cape 
The  vent'rous  Macey  passed, 


THE  NEW  WIFE  AND  THE  OLD. 


51 


And  on  Nantucket's  naked  isle, 
Drew  up  his  boat  at  last. 

And  how,  in  log-built  cabin, 
They     braved     the      rough      sea- 
weather  ; 

And  there,  in  peace  and  quietness, 
Went  down  life's  vale  together : 

How  others  drew  around  them, 
And  how  their  fishing  sped, 

Until  to  every  wind  of  heaven 
Nantucket's  sails  were  spread; 

How  pale  Want  alternated 
With  Plenty's  golden  smile; 

Behold,  is  it  not  written 
In  the  annals  of  the  isle? 

And  yet  that  isle  remaineth 

A  refuge  of  the  free, 
As  when  true-hearted  Macey 

Beheld  it  from  the  sea. 

Free  as  the  winds  that  winnow 
Her  shrubless  hills  of  sand, — 

Free  as  the  waves  that  batter 
Along  her  yielding  land. 

Than  hers,  at  duty's  summons, 

No  loftier  spirit  stirs, — 
Nor  falls  o'er  human  suffering 

A  readier  tear  than  hers. 

God  bless  the  sea-beat  island ! — 

And  grant  forevermore, 
That  charity  and  freedom  dwell, 

As  nowjupon  her  shore! 


THE  NEW  WIFE  AND  THE 
OLD. 

DARK  the  halls,  and  cold  the  feast, — 
Gone     the     bridesmaids,     gone     the 

priest : 

All  is  over, — all  is  done, 
Twain  of  yesterday  are  one ! 
Blooming  girl  and  manhood  gray, 
Autumn  in  the  arms  of  May! 


Hushed  within  and  hushed  without, 

Dancing  feet  and  wrestlers'  shout; 

Dies  the  bonfire  on  the  hill ; 

All  is  dark  and  all  is  still, 

Save  the  starlight,  save  the  breeze 

Moaning     through     the     graveyard 

trees ; 

And  the  great  sea-waves  below, 
Pulse  of  the  midnight  beating -slow. 

From  the  brief  dream  of  a  bride 
She  hath  wakened,  at  his  side. 
With  half-uttered  shriek  and  start,— 
Feels  she  not  his  beating  heart? 
And  the  pressure  of  his  arm, 
And  his  breathing  near  and  warm? 

Lightly  from  the  bridal  bed 
Springs  that  fair  dishevelled  head, 
And  a  feeling,  new,  intense, 
Half  of  shame,  half  innocence, 
Maiden  fear  and  wonder  speaks 
Through     her     lips     and     changing 
cheeks. 

From  the  oaken  mantle  glowing 
Faintest  light  the  lamp  is  throwing 
On  the  mirror's  antique  mould, 
High-backed  chair,  and  wainscot  okf, 
And,  through  faded  curtains  stealing, 
His  dark  sleeping  face  revealing. 

Listless  lies  the  strong  man  there, 
Silver-streaked  his  careless  hair; 
Lips  of  love  have  left  no  trace 
On  that  hard  and  haughty  face; 
And  that  forehead's  knitted  thought 
Love's  soft  hand  hath  not  unwrought. 


"Yet,"  she  sighs,  "he  loves  me  well, 
More  than  these  calm  lips  will  tell. 
Stooping  to  my  lowly  state, 
He  hath  made  me  rich  and  great, 
And  I  bless  him,  though  he  be 
Hard  and  stern  to  all  save  me !  " 


While  she  speaketh,  falls  the  light 
O'er  her  fingers  small  and  white; 
Gold  and  gem,  and  costly  ring 


52 


LEGENDARY. 


Back  the  timid  lustre  fling, — 
Love's  selectest  gifts,  and  rare, 
His  proud  hand  had  fastened  there. 

Gratefully  she  marks  the  glow 
From  those  tapering  lines  of  snow; 
Fondly  o'er  the  sleeper  bending 
His  black  hair  with  golden  blending, 
In  her  soft  and  light  caress, 
Cheek  and  lip  together  press. 

Ha!— that  start  of  horror!— Why 
That  wild  stare  and  wilder  cry, 
Full  of  terror,  full  of  pain? 
Is  there  madness  in  her  brain? 
Hark!  that  gasping,  hoarse  and  low, 
"  Spare  me, — spare  me, — let  me  go !  " 

God  have  mercy! — Icy  cold 
Spectral  hands  her  own  enfold, 
Drawing  silently  from  them 
Love's  fair  gifts  of  gold  and  gem, 
"  Waken  !  save  me !  "  still  as  death 
At  her  side  he  slumbereth. 

Ring  and  bracelet  all  are  gone, 
And  that  ice-cold  hand  withdrawn; 
But  she  hears  a  murmur  low, 
Full  of  sweetness,  full  of  woe, 
Half  a  sigh  and  half  a  moan: 
"  Fear  not !  give  the  dead  her  own !  " 

Ah! — the     dead     wife's     voice     she 

knows ! 

That  cold  hand,  whose  pressure  froze, 
Once  in  warmest  life  had  borne 
Gem  and  band  her  own  hath  worn. 
"Wake  thee!  wake  thee!"     Lo,  his 

eyes 
Open  with  a  dull  surprise. 

In  his  arms  the  strong  man  folds  her, 
Closer  to  his  breast  he  holds  her; 
Trembling  limbs  his  own  are  meeting, 
And  he  feels  her  heart's  quick  beating : 
"  Nay,  my  dearest,  why  this  fear?  " 
"Hush!"   she  saith,    "the    dead    is 
here !  " 

"  Nay,  a  dream, — an  idle  dream." 
But  before  the  lamp's  pale  gleam 


Tremblingly  her  hand  she  raises, — 
There  no  more  the  diamond  blazes, 
Clasp  of  pearl,  or  ring  of  gold, — 
"Ah!"   she   sighs,    "her    hand    was 
cold!" 


Broken  words  of  cheer  he  saith, 
But  his  dark  lip  quivereth, 
And  as  o'er  the  past  he  thinketh, 
From    his    young    wife's     arms     he 

shrinketh ; 

Can  those  soft  arms  round  him  lie, 
Underneath  his  dead  wife's  eye? 

She  her  fair  young  head  can  rest 
Soothed  and  childlike  on  his  breast, 
And  in  trustful  innocence 
Draw     new     strength     and     courage 

thence ; 

He,  the  proud  man,  feels  within 
But  the  cowardice  of  sin! 


She  can  murmur  in  her  thought 
Simple  prayers  her  mother  taught, 
And  His  blessed  angels  call, 
Whose  great  love  is  over  all ; 
He,  alone,  in  prayerless  pride, 
Meets  the  dark  Past  at  her  side ! 

One,  who  living  shrank  with  dread 
From  his  look,  or  word,  or  tread, 
Unto  whom  her  early  grave 
Was  as  freedom  to  the  slave, 
Moves  him  at  this  midnight  hour, 
With  the  dead's  unconscious  power ! 

Ah,  the  dead,  the  unforgot! 

From  their  solemn  homes  of  thought, 

Where  the  cypress  shadows  blend 

Darkly  over  foe  and  friend, 

Or  in  love  or  sad  rebuke, 

Back  upon  the  living  look. 

And  the  tenderest  ones  and  weakest, 
Who    their    wrongs    have    borne  the 

meekest, 

Lifting  from  those  dark,  still  places, 
Sweet  and  sad-remembered  faces, 
O'er  the  guilty  hearts  behind 
An  unwitting  triumph  find. 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE. 


53 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

FROM  1833  TO  1848. 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE. 

T  WAS  night.     The    tranquil    moon 
light  smile 
With    which    Heaven    dreams   of 

Earth,  shed  down 
Its  beauty  on  the  Indian  isle, — 
On  broad   green   field   and   white- 
walled  town; 

And  inland  waste  of  rock  and  wood, 
In  searching  sunshine,  wild  and  rude, 
Rose,  mellowed  through  the  silver 

gleam, 

Soft  as  the  landscape  of  a  dream, 
All  motionless  and  dewy  wet, 
Tree,  vine,  and  flower  in  shadow  met : 
The  myrtle  with  its  snowy  bloom, 
Crossing    the     nightshade's     solemn 

gloom, — 

The  white  cecropia's  silver  rind 
Relieved  by  deeper  green  behind, — 
The  orange  with  its  fruit  of  gold, — 
The  lithe  paullinia's  verdant  fold, — 
The  passion-flower,  with  symbol  holy, 
Twining  its  tendrils  long  and  lowly, — 
The  rhexias  dark,  and  cassia  tall, 
And  proudly  rising  over  all, 
The  kingly  palm's  imperial  stem, 
Crowned  with  its  leafy  diadem, 
Star-like,     beneath      whose      sombre 

shade, 

The  fiery-winged  cucullo  played! 
Yes, — lovely  was   thine   aspect,  then, 

Fair  island  of  the  Western  Sea ! 
Lavish  of  beauty,  even  when 
Thy  brutes   were   happier   than    thy 

men, 

For  they,  at  least,  were  free! 
Regardless  of  thy  glorious  clime, 

Unmindful  of  thy  soil  of  flowers, 
The  toiling  negro  sighed,  that  Time 

No  faster  sped  his  hours. 
For,  by  the  dewy  moonlight  still, 
He  fed  the  weary-turning  mill, 
Or  bent  him  in  the  chill  morass, 
To  pluck  the  long  and  tangled  grass, 


And  hear  above  his  scar-worn  back 
The     heavy     slave-whip's      frequent 

crack ; 

While  in  his  heart  one  evil  thought 
In   solitary  madness   wrought, 
One  baleful  fire  surviving  still 

The    quenching    of    the    immortal 
mind, 

One  sterner  passion  of  his  kind, 
Which  even  fetters  could  not  kill, — 
The  savage  hope,  to  deal,  erelong, 
A  vengeance  bitterer  than  his  wrong ! 

Hark  to  that  cry! — long,   loud,  and 

shrill, 

From  field  and  forest,  rock  and  hill, 
Thrilling  and  horrible  it  rang, 

Around,  beneath,  above ; — 
The    wild    beast    from    his    cavern 

sprang, 

The  wild  bird  from  her  grove ! 
Nor  fear,  nor  joy,  nor  agony 
Were  mingled  in  that  midnight  cry; 
But  like  the  lion's  growl  of  wrath, 
When  falls  that  hunter  in  his  path 
Whose  barbed  arrow,  deeply  set, 
Is  rankling  in  his  bosom  yet, 
It  told  of  hate,  full,  deep,  and  strong, 
Of  vengeance  kindling  out  of  wrong; 
It  was  as  if  the  crimes  of  years — 
The  unrequited  toil,  the  tears, 
The  shame  and  hate,  which  liken  well 
Earth's  garden  to  the  nether  hell — 
Had  found  in  nature's  self  a  tongue, 
On  which  the  gathered  horror  hung; 
As  if  from  cliff,  and  stream,  and  glen 
Burst  on  the  startled  ears  of  men 
That  voice  which  rises  unto  God, 
Solemn  and  stern, — the  cry  of  blood ! 
It  .ceased, — and  all    was     still    once 

more, 

Save  ocean  chafing  on  his  shore, 
The  sighing  of  the  wind  between 
The  broad  banana's  leaves  of  green, 
Or  bough  by  restless  plumage  shook, 
Or    murmuring    voice    of    mountain 

brook. 


54 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


Brief  was  the  silence.     Once  again 

Pealed  to  the  skies  that  frantic  yell 
Glowed  on  the  heavens  a  fiery  stain 

And  flashes  rose  and  fell ; 
And  painted  on  the  blood-red  sky, 
Dark,  naked  arms    were    tossed    on 

high; 
And,   round   the  white  man's  lordly 

hall, 
Trod,  fierce  and  free,  the  brute  he 

made; 

And  those  who  crept  along  the  wall, 
And  answered  to  his  lightest  call 
With  more  than  spaniel  dread, — 
The  creatures  of  his  lawless  beck, — 
Were  trampling  on  his  very  neck! 
And  on  the  night-air,  wild  and  clear, 
Rose  woman's   shriek  of  more  than 

fear; 
For  bloodied  arms  were  round  her 

thrown, 
And  dark  cheeks  pressed  against  her 

own! 

Then,  injured  Afric!— for  the  shame 
Of    thy   own    daughters,    vengeance 

came 

Full  on  the  scornful  hearts  of  those, 
Who   mocked   thee   in   thy  nameless 

woes, 

And  to  thy  hapless  children  gave 
One  choice,— pollution  or  the  grave! 
Where  then  was  he  whose  fiery  zeal 
Had   taught   the   trampled   heart    to 

feel, 

Until  despair  itself  grew  strong, 
And   vengeance    fed   its    torch    from 

wrong? 

Now,  when  the  thunderbolt  is  speed 
ing; 
Now,    v.hen    oppression's     heart     is 

bleeding ; 

Now,  when  the  latent  curse  of  Time 

Is  raining  down  in  fire  and  blood, — 

That  curse  which,  through  long  years 

of  crime, 
Has    gathered,     drop    by    drop,    its 

flood, — 
Why  strikes  he  not,  the  foremost  one, 


Where   murder's    sternest   deeds    are 
done  ? 

He  stood  the  aged  palms  beneath, 
That    shadowed    o'er    his    humble 

door, 

Listening,  with  half-suspended  breath, 
To    the    wild    sounds    of    fear    and 

death,— 

Toussaint  1'Ouverture ! 
What  marvel  that  his  heart  beat  high  ! 
The   blow    for    freedom    had   been 

given, 
And  blood  had  answered  to  the  cry 

Which  Earth  sent  up  to  Heaven ! 
What  marvel  that  a  fierce  delight 
Smiled    grimly    o'er    his    brow     of 

night, — 
As  groan  and    shout    and    bursting 

flame 
Told     where     the    midnight    tempest 

came, 

With  blood  and  fire  along  its  van, 
And  death  behind! — he  was  a  Man! 

Yes,     dark-souled    chieftain  ! — if    the 
light 

Of  mild  Religion's  heavenly  ray 
Unveiled  not  to  thy  mental  sight 

The  lowlier  and  the  purer  way, 
In  which  the  Holy  Sufferer  trod, 

Meekly  amidst  the  sons  of  crime, — 
That  calm  reliance  upon  God 

For  justice  in  his  own  good  time, — 
That  ^  gentleness  to  which  belongs 
Forgiveness  for  its  many  wrongs, 
Even  as  the  primal  martyr,  kneeling 
For  mercy  on  the  evil-dealing, — 
^et  not  the  favored  white  man  name 
Thy    stern    appeal,    with    words    of 

blame. 
Has  he  not,  with  the  light  of  heaven 

Broadly    around    him,    made     the 

same? 

Yea,     on     his     thousand     war-fields 
striven, 

And  gloried  in  his  ghastly  shame  ? — 
Kneeling  amidst  his  brother's  blood, 
To  offer  mockery  unto  God, 
As  if  the  High  and  Holy  One 
Could    smile    on    deeds    of     murder 

done ! — 
As  if  a  human  sacrifice 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE. 


55 


Were   purer   in  his   Holy  eyes, 
Though     offered     up     by     Christian 

hands, 
Than  the  foul  rites  of  Pagan  lands  ! 


Sternly,  amidst  his  household  band, 
His  carbine  grasped  within  his  hand, 

The  white  man  stood,  prepared  and 

still, 

Waiting  the  shock  of  maddened  men, 
Unchained,  and  fierce  as  tigers,  when 

The  horn  winds  through  their  cav- 

erned  hill. 
And  one  was  weeping  in  his  sight,  — 

The  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  isle,  — 
The  bride    who    seemed    but    yester 
night 

Love's  fair  embodied  smile. 
And,  clinging  to  her  trembling  knee 
Looked  up  the  form  of  infancy, 
With  tearful  glance  in  either  face 
The  secret  of  its  fear  to  trace. 

"  Ha  !  stand  or  die  !"  The  white  man's 

eye 

His  steady  musket  gleamed  along, 
As  a  tall  Negro  hastened  nigh, 

With  fearless  step  and  strong. 
"  What,  ho,  Toussaint  !  "    A  moment 

more, 

His  shadow  crossed  the  lighted  floor. 
"  Away  !  "  he  shouted  ;  "fly  with  me,  — 
The  white  man's  bark  is  on  the  sea  ;  — 
Her  sails  must  catch  the  seaward 

wind, 

For  sudden  vengeance  sweeps  behind. 
Our  brethren  from  their  graves  have 

spoken, 
The   yoke   is    spurned,  —  the   chain   is 

broken  ; 
On  all  the  hills  our  fires  are  glow 

ing,  — 
Through   all  the  vales  red  blood  is 

flowing! 
No  more  the  mocking  White    shall 

rest 

His  foot  upon  the  Negro's  breast; 
No  more,  at  morn  or  eve,  shall  drip 
The   warm   blood    from   the   driver's 

whip: 
Yet,  though  Toussaint  has  vengeance 

sworn 


For    all    the    wrongs    his    race    have 

borne, — 

Though  for  each  drop  of  Negro  blood 
The  white  man's  veins  shall  pour  a 

flood; 

Not  all  alone  the  sense  of  ill 
Around  his  heart  is  lingering  still, 
Nor  deeper  can  the  white  man  feel 
The  generous  warmth  of  grateful  zeal. 
Friends  of  the  Negro !  fly  with  me, — 
The  path  is  open  to  the  sea: 
Away,    for    life  !  "  —  He  spoke,    and 

pressed 

The  young  child  to  his  manly  breast, 
As,  headlong,  through  the  cracking 

cane, 
Down     swept     the     dark     insurgent 

train, — 

Drunken  and  grim,  with  shout  and  yell 
Howled  through  the  dark,  like  sounds 

from  hell. 

Far  out,  in  peace,  the  white  man's  sail 
Swayed  free  before  the  sunrise  gale. 
Cloud-like  that  island  hung  afar, 

Along  the  bright  horizon's  verge, 
O'er  which  the  curse  of  servile  war 

Rolled   its    red    torrent,    surge    on 

surge ; 
And  he— the  Negro  champion— where 

In  the  fierce  tumult  struggled  he? 
Go  trace  him  by  the  fiery  glare 
Of   dwellings   in  the  midnight  air,— 
The  yells  of  triumph  and  despair, — 

The   streams   that   crimson  to   the 

sea! 
Sleep  calmly  in  thy  dungeon-tomb, 

Beneath  Besangon's  alien  sky, 
Dark  Haytien!— for  the    time    shall 

come, 

Yea,  even  now  is  nigh, — 
When,  everywhere,  thy  name  shall  be 
"Redeemed  from  color's  infamy; 
And  men  shall  learn  to  speak  of  thee, 
As  one  of  earth's  great  spirits,  born 
In  servitude,  and  nursed  in  scorn, 
Casting  aside  the  weary  weight 
And  fetters  of  its  low  estate, 
In  that  strong  majesty  of  soul 

Which  knows  no  color,  tongue,  or 
clime, — 


56 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


Which  still  hath    spurned    the    base 

control 

Of  tyrants  through  all  time ! 
Far    other    hands    than    mine   may 

wreath 

The  laurel  round  thy  brow  of  death, 
And  speak  thy  praise,  as  one  whose 

word 

A  thousand  fiery  spirits  stirred, — 
Who     crushed     his     foeman     as     a 

worm, — 
Whose    step    on    human    hearts    fell 

firm : — 

Be  mine  the  better  task  to  find 
A  tribute  for  thy  lofty  mind, 
Amidst     whose     gloomy     vengeance 

shone 

Some  milder  virtues  all  thine  own, — 
Some  gleams   of    feeling    pure    and 

warm, 

Like  sunshine  on  a  sky  of  storm, — 
Proofs  that  the  Negro's  heart  retains 
Some  nobleness  amidst  its  chains, — 
That  kindness  to  the  wronged  is  never 

Without  its  excellent  reward, — 
Holy  to  human-kind,  and  ever 
Acceptable  to  God. 


THE  SLAVE-SHIPS. 

.  "That  fatal,  that  perfidious  bark, 
Built  i'  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses 
dark." 

Milton's  Lycidas, 

"ALL  ready?"  cried  the  captain; 

"  Ay,  ay !  "  the  seamen  said ; 
"  Heave  up  the  worthless  lubbers, — 

The  dying  and  the  dead." 
Up  from  the  slave-ship's  prison 

Fierce,  bearded  heads  were  thrust : 
"  Now  let  the  sharks  look  to  it, — 

Toss  up  the  dead  ones  first !  " 

Corpse  after  corpse  came  up, — 

Death  had  been  busy  there ; 
Where  every  blow  is  mercy, 

Why  should  the  spoiler  spare? 
Corpse  after  corpse  they  cast 

Sullenly  from  the  ship, 
Yet  bloody  with  the  traces 

Of  fetter-link  and  whip. 


Gloomily  stood  the  captain, 

With  his  arms  upon  his  breast, 
With  his  cold  brow  sternly  knotted, 

And  his  iron  lip  compressed, 
'  Are  all  the  dead  dogs  over  ?  " 

Growled  through  that  matted  lip, — 
"The  blind  ones  are  no  better, 

Let's  lighten  the  good  ship." 

Hark !  from  the  ship's  dark  bosom, 

The  very  sounds  of  hell ! 
The  ringing  clank  of  iron, — 

The  maniac's  short,  sharp  yell! — 
The  hoarse,  low  curse,  throat-stifled, — 

The  starving  infant's  moan, — . 
The  horror  of  a  breaking  heart 

Poured  through  a  mother's  groan. 

Up  from  that  loathsome  prison 

The  stricken  blind  ones  came: 
Below,  had  all  been  darkness, — 

Above,  was  still  the  same. 
Yet  the  holy  breath  of  heaven 

Was  sweetly  breathing  there, 
And  the  heated  brow  of  fever 

Cooled  in  the  soft  sea-air. 

"  Overboard  with  them,  shipmates  !  " 

Cutlass  and  dirk  were  plied; 
Fettered  and  blind,  one  after  one, 

Plunged  down  the  vessel's  side. 
The  sabre  smote  above, — 

Beneath,  the  lean  shark  lay, 
Waiting  with  wide  and  bloody  jaw 

His  quick  and  human  prey. 

God  of  the  earth!  what  cries 

Rang  upward  unto  thee? 
Voices  of  agony  and  blood, 

From  ship-deck  and  from  sea. 
The  last  dull  plunge  was  heard, — 

The   last   wave   caught  its   stain, — 
And  the  unsated  shark  looked  up 

For  human  hearts  in  vain. 


Red  glowed  the  western  waters, — 
The  setting  sun  was  there, 

Scattering  alike  on  wave  and  cloud 
Her  fiery  mesh  of  hair. 

Amidst  a  group  in  blindness, 


STANZAS. 


57 


A  solitary  eye 
Gazed,   from   the    burdened    slaver's 

deck, 
Into  that  burning  sky. 

"A  storm,"  spoke  out  the  gazer, 

"  Is  gathering  and  at  hand, — 
Curse  on't — I'd  give  my  other  eye 

For  one  firm  rood  of  land." 
And  then  he  laughed, — but  only 

His  echoed  laugh  replied, — 
For  the  blinded  and  the  suffering 

Alone  were  at  his  side. 


Night  settled  on  the  waters, 

And  on  a  stormy  heaven, 
While  fiercely  on  that  lone  ship's  track 

The  thunder-gust  was   driven. 
"  A  sail ! — thank  God,  a  sail !  " 

And  as  the  helmsman  spoke, 
Up  through  the  stormy  murmur 

A  shout  of  gladness  broke. 

Down  came  the  stranger  vessel, 

Unheeding  on  her  way, 
So  near,  that  on  the  slaver's  deck 

Fell  off  her  driven  spray. 
"  Ho  !  for  the  love  of  mercy, — 

We're  perishing  and  blind !  " 
A  wail  of  utter  agony 

Came  back  upon  the  wind : 

"Help  us!  for  we  are  stricken 

With  blindness  every  one; 
Ten  days  we've  floated  fearfully, 

Unnoting  star  or  sun. 
Our  ship's  the  slaver  Leon, — . 

We've  but  a  score  on  board, — 
Our  slaves  are  all  gone  over, — 

Help,— for  the  love  of  God !  " 

On  livid  brows  of  agony 

The   broad   red   lightning   shone, — 
But  the  roar  of  wind  and  thunder 

Stifled  the  answering  groan 
Wailed  from  the  broken  waters 

A  last  despairing  cry, 
As,  kindling  in  the  stormy  light, 

The  stranger  ship  went  by. 


In  the  sunny  Guadaloupe 

A  dark-hulled  vessel  lay, — 
With  a  crew  who  noted  never 

The  nightfall  or  the  day. 
The  blossom  of  the  orange 

Was  white  by  every  stream, 
And  tropic  leaf,  and  flower,  and  bird 

Were  in  the  warm  sunbeam. 


And  the  sky  was  bright  as  ever, 

And  the  moonlight  slept  as  well, 
On  the  palm-trees  by  the  hillside, 

And  the  streamlet  of  the  dell: 
And  the  glances  of  the  Creole 

Were  still  as  archly  deep, 
And  her  smiles  as  full  as  ever 

Of  passion  and  of  sleep. 


But  vain  were  bird  and  blossom, 

The  green  earth  and  the  sky, 
And  the  smile  of  human  faces, 

To  the  slaver's  darkened  eye; 
At  the  breaking  of  the  morning, 

At  the  star-lit  evening  time, 
O'er  a  world  of  light  and  beauty 

Fell  the  blackness  of  his  crime. 


STANZAS. 

["The  despotism  which  our  fathers  could 
not  bear  in  their  native  country  is  expiring, 
and  the  sword  of  justice  in  her  reformed  hands 
has  applied  its  exterminating  edge  to  slavery. 
Shall  the  United  States  — the  free  United 
States,  which  could  not  bear  the  bonds  of  a 
king  — cradle  the  bondage  which  a  king  is 
abolishing?  Shall  a  Republic  be  less  free 
than  a  Monarchy?  Shall  we,  in  the  vigor  and 
buoyancy  of  our  manhood,  be  less  energetic 
in  righteousness  than  a  kingdom  in  its  age?" 
— Dr.  Pollen's  Address. 

"Genius  of  America!  — Spirits  of  our  free 
institutions!  —  where  art  thou?  —  How  art  thou 
fallen,  O  Lucifer!  son  of  the  morning,— how 
art  thou  fallen  from  Heaven  I  Hell  from  be 
neath  is  moved  for  thee,  to  meet  thee  at  thy 
coming!  — The  kings  of  the  earth  cry  out  to 
thee.  Ahal  Aha!  — ART  THOU  BECOME  LIKE 
UNTO  us!— Speech  of  Samuel  J.  May.] 


58 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


OUR  fellow-countrymen  in  chains ! 

Slaves — in  a  land  of  light  and  law ! 
Slaves — crouching  on  the  very  plains 
Where  rolled  the   storm  of   Free 
dom's  war! 
A     groan     from     Eutaw's     haunted 

wood, — 
A   wail   where   Camden's    martyrs 

fell,— 

By  every  shrine  of  patriot  blood, 
From  Moultrie's  wall  and  Jasper's 
well! 

By  storied  hill  and  hallowed  grot, 

By  mossy  wood  and  marshy  glen, 
Whence  rang  of  old  the  rifle-shot, 
And   hurrying   shout   of    Marion's 

men! 
The   groan    of    breaking    hearts     is 

there,— 

The  falling  lash,— the  fetter's  clank ! 
Slaves, — SLAVES  are  breathing  in  that 

air, 

Which   old  De   Kalb   and   Sumter 
drank ! 


What,      ho ! — our      countrymen      in 

chains ! 
The   whip    on   WOMAN'S    shrinking 

flesh! 

Our  soil  yet  reddening  with  the  stains 
Caught  from  her  scourging,  warm 

and  fresh ! 
What!   mothers   from  their  children 

riven ! 
What!    God's   own   image    bought 

and  sold! 

AMERICANS  to  market  driven, 
And  bartered  as  the  brute  for  gold ! 

Speak !  shall  their  agony  of  prayer 
Come    thrilling    to    our    hearts    in 
vain? 

To  us  whose  fathers  scorned  to  bear 
The  paltry  menace  of  a  chain; 

To  us,  whose  boast  is  loud  and  long 
Of  holy  Liberty  and  Light,— 


Say,   shall   these  writhing  slaves    of 

Wrong, 

Plead  vainly   for    their    plundered 
Right  ? 

What!   shall    we    send,    with    lavish 

breath, 

Our  sympathies  across  the  wave, 
Where    Manhood,    on   the    field    of 

death, 

Strikes  for  his  freedom  or  a  grave? 
Shall  prayers  go  up,  and  hymns  be 

sung 
For     Greece,     the    Moslem     fetter 

spurning, 
And    millions    hail    with     pen     and 

tongue 
Our  light  on  all  her  altars  burning  ? 

Shall     Belgium     feel,     and     gallant 

France, 
By    Vendome's    pile    and    Schoen- 

brun's  wall, 

And  Poland,  gasping  on  her  lance, 
The  impulse  of  our  cheering  call? 
And    shall    the    SLAVE,  beneath   our 

eye, 
Clank   o'er    our   fields    his    hateful 

chain  ? 

And  toss  his  fettered  arms  on  high, 
And  groan  for    Freedom's    gift,  in 
vain  ? 

O,  say,  shall  Prussia's  banner  be 

A  refuge  for  the  stricken  slave? 
And  shall  the  Russian  serf  go  free 

By  Baikal's  lake  and  Neva's  wave? 
And  shall  the  wintry-bosomed  Dane 

Relax  the  iron  hand  of  pride, 
And  bid  his  bondmen  cast  the  chain, 

From  fettered  soul  and  limb,  aside? 

Shall  every  flap  of  England's  flag 

Proclaim  that  all  around  are  free, 
From   "  farthest   Ind "  to    each  blue 

crag 

That  beetles  o'er  the  Western  Sea? 

A.nd  shall  we  scoff  at  Europe's  kings, 

When  Freedom's  fire  is  dim  with 

us, 
And  round  our  country's  altar  clings 


THE  YANKEE  GIRL. 


59 


The  damning    shade    of    Slavery's 
curse? 

Go — let  us  ask  of  Ccnstantine 
To    loose    his    grasp    on     Poland's 

throat ; 

And  beg  the  lord  of  Mahmoud's  line 

To  spare  the  struggling  Suliote, — 

Will  not  the  scorching  answer  come 

From  turbaned  Turk,  and  scornful 

Russ: 
"  Go,    loose    your    fettered  slaves  at 

home, 
Then  turn,  and  ask  the  like  of  us  !  " 


Just  God !  and  shall  we  calmly  rest, 
The    Christian's    scorn, — the     hea 
then's  mirth, — 
Content  to  live  the  lingering  jest 

And  by-word  of  a  mocking  Earth? 
Shall  our  own  glorious  land  retain 
That  curse  which  Europe  scora'"  to 

bear? 
Shall    our    own    brethren    drag    the 

chain 

Which   not   even   Russia's   menials 
wear? 


Up,  then,  in  Freedom's  manly  part, 

From  graybeard  eld  to  fiery  youth, 
And  on  the  nation's  naked  heart 

Scatter  the  living  coals  of  Truth ! 
Up, — while  ye  slumber,  deeper  yet 

The  shadow  of  our  fame  is  grow 
ing! 
Up, — while  ye  pause,  our  sun  may  set 

In  blood,  around  our   altars   flow 
ing! 

Oh !  rouse  ye,  ere  the   storm  comes 
forth,— 

The  gathered   wrath   of   God   and 

man, — 
Like  that  which  wasted  Egypt's  earth, 

When  hail  and  fire  above  it  ran. 
Hear  ye  no  warnings  in  the  air? 

Feel  ye  no  earthquake  underneath? 
Up, — up !  why  will  ye  slumber  where 

The  sleeper  only  wakes  in  death  ? 


Up  nozv  for  Freedom ! — not  in  strife 
Like     that     your     sterner     fathers 

saw, — 

The  awful  waste  of  human  life, — 
The  glory  and  the  guilt  of  war : 
But   break   the   chain, — the   yoke   re 
move, 
And    smite    to   earth    Oppression's 

rod, 
With  those  mild  arms  of  Truth  and 

Love, 

Made   mighty   through    the    living 
God! 

Down  let  the  shrine  of  Moloch  sink, 

And  leave  no  traces  where  it  stood ; 
Nor  longer  let  its  idol  drink 

His  daily  cup  of  human  blood ; 
But  rear  another  altar  there, 

To    Truth    and    Love    and    Mercy 

given, 

And   Freedom's  gift,  and  Freedom's 
prayer, 

Shall    call    an    answer    down   from 


THE  YANKEK  GIRL. 

SHE  sings  by  her  wheel  at  that  low 

cottage-door, 
Which    the   long   evening   shadow   is 

stretching  before, 
With  a  music  as  sweet  as  the  music 

which  seems 
Breathed  softly  and  faint  in  the  ear 

of  our  dreams ! 

How  brilliant  and  mirthful  the  light 

of  her  eye, 
Like   a    star   glancing   out    from   the 

blue  of  the  sky ! 
And    lightly    and     freely    her    dark 

tresses  play 
O'er  a  brow  and  a  bosom  as  lovely 

as  they ! 

Who  comes  in  his  pride  to  that  low 

cottage-door, — 
The  haughty  and  rich  to  the  humble 

and  poor? 


60 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


'T  is  the  great  Southern  planter, — the 

master  who  waves 
His  whip  of  dominion  o'er  hundreds 

of  slaves. 

"  Nay,  Ellen, — for  shame !   Let  those 

Yankee  fools  spin, 
Who  would  pass  for  our  slaves  with 

a  change  of  their  skin; 
Let  them  toil  as  they  will  at  the  loom 

or  the  wheel, 
Too  stupid  for  shame,  and  too  vulgar 

to  feel ! 

"  But  thou  art  too  lovely  and  precious 
a  gem 

To  be  bound  to  their  burdens  and 
sullied  by  them, — 

For  shame,  Ellen,  shame, — cast  thy 
bondage  aside, 

And  away  to  the  South,  as  my  bless 
ing  and  pride. 

"O,  come  where  no  winter  thy  foot 
steps  can  wrong, 

But  where  flowers  are  blossoming  all 
the  year  long, 

Where  the  shade  of  the  palm-tree  is 
over  my  home, 

And  the  lemon  and  orange  are  white 
in  their  bloom! 

"  O,  come  to  my  home,  where  my  ser 
vants  shall  all 

Depart  at  thy  bidding  and  come  at 
thy  call; 

They  shall  heed  thee  as  mistress  with 
trembling  and  awe, 

And  each  wish  of  thy  heart  shall  be 
felt  as  a  law." 

O,  could  ye  have  seen  her — that  pride 

of  our  girls — 
Arise  and  cast  back  the  dark  wealth 

of  her  curls, 
With  a   scorn  in  her  eye  which   the 

gazer  could  feel, 
And  a  glance  like  the  sunshine  that 

flashes  on  steel ! 


"  Go  back,  haughty  Southron !  thy 
treasures  of  gold 

Are  dim  with  the  blood  of  the  hearts 
thou  hast  sold ; 

Thy  home  may  be  lovely,  but  round 
it  I  hear 

The  crack  of  the  whip  and  the  foot 
steps  of  'fear ! 

"  And  the  sky  of  thy  South  may  be 
brighter  than  ours, 

And  greener  thy  landscapes,  and 
fairer  thy  flowers ; 

But  dearer  the  blast  round  our  moun 
tains  which  raves, 

Than  the  sweet  summer  zephyr  which 
breathes  over  slaves! 

"  Full  low  at  thy  bidding  thy  negroes 

may  kneel, 
With   the  iron  of  bondage  on   spirit 

and  heel; 
Yet  know  that  the  Yankee  girl  sooner 

would  be 
In  fetters  with  them,  than  in  freedom 

with  thee !  " 


TO  W.  L.  G. 

CHAMPION  of  those  who  groan    be 
neath 

Oppression's  iron  hand: 
In  view  of  penury,  hate,  and  death, 

I  see  thee  fearless  stand. 
Still  bearing  up  thy  lofty  brow, 

In  the  steadfast  strength  of  truth, 
In  manhood  sealing  well  the  vow 

And  promise  of  thy  youth. 

Go  on, — for  thou  hast  chosen  well ; 

On  in  the  strength  of  God ! 
Long  as  one  human  heart  shall  swell 

Beneath  the  tyrant's  rod. 
Speak  in  a  slumbering  nation's  ear, 

As  thou  hast  ever  spoken, 
Until  the  dead  in  sin  shall  hear, — 

The  fetter's  link  be  broken! 


THE  HUNTERS  OF  MEN. 


61 


I  love  thee  with  a  brother's  love, 

I   feel  my  pulses  thrill, 
To  mark  thy  spirit  soar  above 

The  cloud  of  human  ill. 
My  heart  hath  leaped  to  answer  thine, 
.    And  echo  back  thy  words, 
As  leaps  the  warrior's  at  the  shine 

And  flash  of  kindred  swords! 

They  tell  me  thou  art  rash  and  vain — 

A  searcher  after  fame; 
That  thou  art  striving  but  to  gain 

A  long-enduring  name; 
That   thou    hast   nerved   the   Afric's 
hand 

And  steeled  the  Afric's  heart, 
To  shake  aloft  his  vengeful  brand, 

And  rend  his  chain  apart. 

Have  I  not  known  thee  well,  and  read 

Thy  mighty  purpose  long? 
And  watched  the  trials    which    have 
made 

Thy  human  spirit  strong? 
And  shall  the  slanderer's  demon  breath 

Avail  with  one  like  me, 
To  dim  the  sunshine  of  my  faith 

And  earnest  trust  in  thee? 

Go  on, — the  dagger's  point  may  glare 

Amid  thy  pathway's   gloom, — 
The  fate  which  sternly  threatens  there 

Is  glorious  martyrdom! 
Then  onward  with  a  martyr's  zeal ; 

And  wait  thy  sure  reward 
When   man   to    man   no    more   shall 
kneel, 

And  God  alone  be  Lord ! 
1833- 


SONG  OF  THE  FREE. 

PRIDE  of  New  England ! 

Soul  of  our  fathers ! 
Shrink  we  all  craven-like 

When  the  storm  gathers? 
What  though  the  tempest  be 

Over  us  lowering, 
Where's  the  New-Englander 

Shamefully  cowering? 


Graves  green  and  holy 
Around  us  are  lying, — 

Free  were  the  sleepers  all, 
Living  and  dying ! 

Back  with  the  Southerner's 

Padlocks  and   scourges ! 
Go, — let  him  fetter  down 

Ocean's  free  surges! 
Go, — let  him  silence 

Winds,  clouds,  and  waters,- 
Never  New  England's  own 

Free  sons  and  daughters ! 
Free  as  our  rivers  are 

Ocean-ward  going, — 
Free  as  the  breezes  are 

Over  us  blowing. 

Up  to  our  altars,  then, 

Haste  we,  and  summon 
Courage  and  loveliness, 

Manhood  and  woman ! 
Deep  let  our  pledges  be: 

Freedom  forever! 
Truce  with  oppression, 

Never,  oh !  never ! 
By  our  own  birthright-gift, 

Granted  of  Heaven, — 
Freedom  for  heart  and  lip, 

Be  the  pledge  given ! 

If  we  have  whispered  truth, 

Whisper  no  longer; 
Speak  as  the  tempest  does, 

Sterner  and  stronger; 
Still  be  the  tones  of  truth 

Louder  and  firmer, 
Startling  the  haughty  South 

With  the  deep  murmur ; 
God  and  our  charter's  right, 

Freedom  forever ! 
Truce  with  oppression, 

Never,  oh!  never! 


1836. 


THE  HUNTERS  OF  MEN. 

HAVE  ye  heard  of  our  hunting,  o'er 

mountain  and  glen, 
Through  cane-brake  and  forest,— the 

hunting  of  men? 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


The  lords  of  our  land  to  this  hunting 

have  gone, 
As  the  fox-hunter  follows  the  sound 

of  the  horn ; 
Hark ! — the    cheer    and    the    hallo  ! — 

the  crack  of  the  whip, 
And    the   yell    of   the    hound    as    he 

fastens  his  grip! 
All  blithe  are  our  hunters,  and  noble 

their  match, — 
Though   hundreds  are   caught,   there 

are  millions  to  catch. 
So  speed  to  their  hunting,  o'er  moun 
tain  and  glen, 
Through  cane-brake  and  forest, — the 

hunting  of  men ! 


Gay  luck  to  our  hunters ! — how  nobly 

they  ride 
In  the  glow  of  their  zeal,  and    the 

strength  of  their  pride ! — 
The  priest  with  his  cassock  flung  back 

on  the  wind, 
Just   screening  the   politic   statesman 

behind, — 
The  saint  and  the  sinner,  with  cursing 

and  prayer, — 
The  drunk  and  the  sober,  ride  merrily 

there. 
And    woman, —  kind    woman, —  wife, 

widow,  and  maid, 

For  the  good  of  the  hunted,  is  lend 
ing  her  aid : 
Her  foot's  in  the  stirrup,  her  hand  on 

the  rein, 
How  blithely  she  rides  to  the  hunting 

of  men ! 


O,  goodly  and  grand  is  our  hunting 
to  see, 

In  this  "  land  of  the  brave  and  this 
home  of  the  free." 

Priest,  warrior,  and  statesman,  from 
Georgia  to  Maine, 

All  mounting  the  saddle, — all  grasp 
ing  the  rein, — 

Right  merrily  hunting  the  black  man, 
whose  sin 


Is  the  curl  of  his  hair  and  the  hue  of 

his  skin ! 
Woe,  now,  to  the  hunted  who  turns 

him  at  bay! 
Will  our  hunters  be  turned  from  their 

purpose  and  prey? 
Will  their  hearts  fail  within  them? — 

their  nerves  tremble,  when 
All  roughly  they  ride  to  the  hunting 

of  men? 


Ho  ! — ALMS  for  our  hunters !  all  weary 

and  faint, 
Wax    the    curse    of    the    sinner    and 

prayer  of  the  saint. 
The      horn     is     wound     faintly, — the 

echoes  are  still, 

Over  cane-brake  and  river,  and  for 
est  and  hill. 
Haste, — alms    for    our    hunters !     the 

hunted  once  more 
Have  turned   from   their   flight   with 

their  backs  to  the  shore : 
What    right    have    they    here    in    the 

home  of  the  white, 
Shadowed    o'er    by     our    banner    of 

Freedom  and  Right? 
Ho  !— alms  for  the  hunters !  or  never 

again 
Will  they  ride  in  their  pomp  to  the 

hunting  of  men ! 


ALMS, — ALMS   for  our  hunters!  why 

will  ye ,  delay, 
When  their  pride  and  their  glory  are 

melting  away? 
The  parson  has  turned ;  for,  on  charge 

of  his  own, 
Who    goeth    a    warfare,  or    hunting, 

alone  ? 
The  politic  statesman  looks  back  with 

a  sigh, — 
There  is  doubt  in  his  heart, — there  is 

fear  in  his  eye. 
O,  haste,  lest  that  doubting  and  fear 

shall  prevail, 
And  the  head  of  his   steed  take  the 

place  of  the  tail. 


CLERICAL  OPPRESSORS. 


63 


O,  haste,  ere  he  leave  us!   for  who 

will  ride  then, 
For  pleasure  or  gain,  to  the  hunting 

of  men? 
1835- 


CLERICAL  OPPRESSORS. 

[In  the  report  of  the  celebrated  pro-slavery 
meeting  n  Charleston,  S.  C.,  on  the  4th  of  the 
9th  m9nth,  1835,  published  in  the  Courier  of 
that  city.it  is  stated,  "The  CLERGY  of  all 
denominations  attended  in  a  body,  LENDING 

THEIR  SANCTION  TO   THE   PROCEEDINGS,   and 

adding  by  their  presence  to  the  impressive 
character  of  the  scene!"] 

JUST  God ! — and  these  are  they 
Who  minister  at  thine  altar,  God  of 

Right ! 
Men  who  their  hands  with  prayer  and 

blessing  lay 
On  Israel's  Ark  of  light! 

What!  preach  and  kidnap  men? 
Give   thanks, — and   rob   thy   own  af 
flicted  poor? 
Talk  of  thy  glorious  liberty,  and  then 

Bolt  hard  the  captive's  door? 

What !  servants  of  thy  own 
Merciful  Son,  who  came  to  seek  and 

save 

The  homeless   and  the  outcast, — fet 
tering  down 
The  tasked  and  plundered  slave ! 

Pilate  and  Herod,  friends! 
Chief  priests   and   rulers,   as   of  old, 

combine ! 
Just  God  and  holy!    is    that    church, 

which  lends 
Strength  to  the  spoiler,  thine? 

Paid  hypocrites,  who  turn 
Judgment   aside,   and   rob   the    Holy 

Book 
Of  those  high  words  of  truth  which 

search  and  burn 
In  warning  and  rebuke; 


Feed  fat,  ye  locusts,  feed! 
And,  in  your  tasselled  pulpits,  thank 

the  Lord 
That,  from  the  toiling  bondman's  utter 

need, 
Ye  pile  your  own  full  board. 

How  long,  O  Lord !  how  long 
Shall  such  a  priesthood  barter  truth 

away, 
And  in  thy  name,  for    robbery  and 

wrong 
At  thy  own  altars  pray? 

Is  not  thy  hand  stretched  forth 
Visibly  in   the   heavens,   to  awe  and 

smite  ? 
Shall  not  the  living  God  of  all  the 

earth, 
And  heaven  above,  do  right? 

Woe,  then,  to  all  who  grind 
Their  brethren  of  a  common  Father 

down! 

To  all  who  plunder  from  the  immor 
tal  mind 
Its  bright  and  glorious  crown! 

Woe  to  the  priesthood!  woe 
To  those  whose  hire  is  with  the  price 

of  blood, — 
Perverting,    darkening,    changing,    as 

they   go, 
The  searching  truths  of  God! 

Their  glory  and  their  might 
Shall  perish;   and  their  very  names 

shall  be 
Vile  before  all  the  people,  in  the  light 

Of  a  world's  liberty. 

O,  speed  the  moment  on 
When  Wrong   shall   cease,   and  Lib 
erty  and  Love 
And  Truth  and  Right  throughout  th< 

earth  be  known 
As  in  their  home  above. 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


THE  CHRISTIAN   SLAVE. 

[In  a  late  publication  of  L.  T.  Tasistro,— 
"Random  Shots  and  Southern  Breezes,"— is  a 
description  of  a  slave  auction  at  New  Orleans, 
at  which  the  auctioneer  recommended  the 
woman  on  the  stand  as  "A  GOOD  CHRISTIAN!"] 

A  CHRISTIAN!  going,  gone! 
Who  bids  for  God's  own  image?— for 

his  grace, 

Which  that  poor  victim  of  the  market 
place 
Hath  in  her  suffering  won? 

My  God!  can  such  things  be? 
Hast  thou  not  said  that  whatso'er  is 

done 
Unto  thy  weakest  and  thy  humblest 

one 
Is  even  done  to  thee? 


In  that  sad  victim,  then, 
Child  of  thy  pitying  love,  I  see  thee 

stand,  — 
Once  more  the  jest-  word  of  a  mock 

ing  band, 
Bound,  sold,  and  scourged  again  ! 

A  Christian  up  for  sale! 
Wet  with  her  blood  your  whips,  o'er- 

task  her  frame, 
Make  her  life  loathsome  with  your 

wrong  and  shame, 
Her  patience  shall  not  fail  ! 

A  heathen  hand  might  deal 
Back  on  your-  heads    the    gathered 

wrong  of  years  : 
But    her    low,    broken    prayer     and 

nightly  tears, 
Ye  neither  heed  nor  feel. 


Con  well  thy  lesson  o'er, 
Thou  prudent  teacher,  —  tell  the  toil 

ing  slave 
No  dangerous  tale  of  Him  who  came 

to  save 
The  outcast  and  the  poor. 


But  wisely  shut  the  ray 
Of  God's  free  Gospel  from  her  simple 

heart, 

And  to  her  darkened  mind  alone  im 
part 
One  stern  command, — OBEY! 

So  shalt  thou  deftly  raise 
The   market   price   of   human   flesh; 

and  while 
On   thee,   their  pampered  guest,   the 

planters  smile, 
Thy  chuich  shall  praise. 

Grave,  reverend  men  shall  tell 
From  Northern  pulpits  how  thy  work 

was  blest, 
While  in  that  vile  South  Sodom,  first 

and  best, 
Thy  poor  disciples  sell. 

O,  shame!  the  Moslem  thrall, 
Who,  with  his  master,  to  the  Prophet 

kneels, 
While  turning   to   the   sacred   Kebla 

feels 
His  fetters  break  and  fall. 

Cheers  for  the  turbaned  Bey 
Of   robber-peopled   Tunis!     he    hath 

torn 
The  dark  slave-dungeons  open,  and 

hath  borne 
Their  inmates  into  day; 

But  our  poor  slave  in  vain 
Turns    to    the    Christian     shrine    his 

aching   eyes, — 
Its  rites  will  only  swell  his  market 

price, 
And  rivet  on  his  chain. 

God  of  all  right !  how  long 
Shall  priestly  robbers  at  thine  altar 

stand, 
Lifting  in  prayer  to  thee,  the  bloody 

hand 
And  haughty  brow  of  wrong? 


The  blossom  of  the  orange 
Was  white  by  every  stream, 


And  tropic  leaf,  and  flower,  and  bird 
Were  in  the  warm  sunbeam 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES. 


65 


O,  from  the  fields  of  cane, 
From  the  low  rice-swamp,  from  the 

trader's  cell, — 
From  the  black  slave-ship's  foul  and 

loathsome  hell, 
And  cofHe's  weary  chain, — 

Hoarse,  horrible,  and  strong, 
Rises  to  Heaven  that  agonizing  cry, 
Filling  the  arches  of  the  hollow  sky, 

HOW  LONG,  O  GOD,  HOW  LONG? 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES. 

Is  this  the  land  our  fathers  loved, 
The  freedom  which  they  toiled  to 

win? 

Is  this  the  soil  whereon  they  moved? 
Are  these  the  graves  they  slumber 

in? 

Are  we  the  sons  by  whom  are  borne 
The  mantles  which    the    dead    have 
worn? 

And    shall    we    crouch    above    these 

graves, 

With  craven  soul  and  fettered  lip? 
Yoke  in  with  marked  and  branded 

slaves, 

And  tremble  at  the  driver's  whip? 
Bend  to  the  earth  our  pliant  knees, 
And     speak — but     as     our     masters 
please? 

Shall  outraged  Nature  cease  to  feel? 

Shall  Mercy's  tears  no  longer  flow? 

Shall    ruffian   threats    of    cord    and 

steel,— 

The  dungeon's   gloom, — the  assas 
sin's  blow, 

Turn  back  the  spirit  roused  to  save 
The    Truth,    our    Country,    and    the 
Slave? 

Of  human  skulls  that  shrine  was 
made, 

Round  which  the  priests  of  Mexico 
Before  their  loathsome  idol  prayed ; — 

Is  Freedom's  altar  fashioned  so  ? 


And  must  we  yield  to  Freedom's  God, 
As  offering  meet,  the  negro's  blood? 

Shall  tongues  be  mute,  v/hen  deeds 

are  wrought 
Which  well  might  shame  extremest 

hell? 
Shall     freemen     lock    the    indignant 

thought  ? 

Shall  Pity's  bosom  cease  to  swell  ? 
Shall    Honor    bleed?  — shall     Truth 

succumb  ? 
Shall   pen,   and   press,   and   soul    be 

dumb? 

No ;  —  by     each     spot     of     haunted 

ground, 

Where    Freedom    weeps    her    chil 
dren's  fall- 
By   Plymouth's   rock,    and    Bunker's 

mound, — 
By  Griswold's  stained  and  shattered 


By    Warren's     ghost, — by    Langdon's 

shade, — 
By  all  the  memories  of  our  dead ! 

By  their  enlarging  souls,  which  burst 
The  bands  and  fetters  round  them 
set  — 

By  the  free  Pilgrim  spirit  nursed 
Within  our  inmost  bosoms,  yet, — 

By  all  above,  around,  below, 

Be  ours  the  indignant  answer, — NO! 

No ; — guided  by  our  country's  laws, 
For  truth,  and  right,  and  suffering 

man, 

Be  ours  to  strive  in  Freedom's  cause, 
As    Christians    may,  —  as    freemen 

can! 

Still  pouring  on  unwilling  ears 
That  truth  oppression  only  fears. 

What!  shall  we  guard  our  neighbor 

still, 
While  woman  shrieks  beneath  his 

rod, 

And  while  he  tramples  down  at  will 
The  image  of  a  common  God ! 


66 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


Shall  watch  and  ward  be  round  him 

set, 
Of  Northern  nerve  and  bayonet? 

And  shall  we  know  and  share  with 

him 

The  danger  and  the  growing  shame  ? 
And  see  our  Freedom's  light  grow 

dim, 
Which  should  have  filled  the  world 

with  flame? 
And,  writhing,  feel,  where'er  we  turn, 
A  world's  reproach  around  us  burn? 

Is 't  not  enough  that  this  is  borne? 
And    asks    our    haughty    neighbor 

more? 
Must    fetters   which   his    slaves   have 

worn 
Clank  round  the  Yankee  farmer's 

door? 

Must  he  be  told,  beside  his  plough, 
What  he  must  speak,  and  when,  and 

how? 

Must  he  be  told  his  freedom  stands 
On     Slavery's     dark     foundations 

strong, — 
On     breaking     hearts     and     fettered 

hands, 

On  robbery,  and  crime,  and  wrong? 
That  all  his  fathers  taught  in  vain, — 
That  Freedom's  emblem  is  the  chain? 

Its  life,  its  soul,  from  slavery  drawn? 
False,  foul,  profane!  Go, — teach  as 

well 

Of  holy  Truth  from  Falsehood  born ! 
Of  Heaven  refreshed  bv  airs  from 

Hell! 

Of  Virtue  in  the  arms  of  Vice! 
Of  Demons  planting   Paradise! 

Rail     on,    then,     "brethren    of     the 

South," — 
Ye  shall  not    hear    the    truth  the 

less  ;— 

No  seal  is  on  the  Yankee's  mouth, 
No  fetter  on  the  Yankee's  press! 


From   our  Green   Mountains   to   the 

sea, 

One    voice  shall    thunder, — WE   ARE 

FREE! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  READING  THE  MESSAGE  OF 
GOVERNOR  RITNER,  OF  PENNSYLVANIA, 
1836. 

THANK  God  for  the  token! — one  lip 
is  still  free, — 

One  spirit  untrammelled, — unbending 
one  knee ! 

Like  the  oak  of  the  mountain,  deep- 
rooted  and  firm, 

Erect,  when  the  multitude  bends  to 
the  storm; 

When  traitors  to  Freedom,  and 
Honor,  and  God, 

Are  bowed  at  an  Idol  polluted  with 
blood ; 

When  the  recreant  North  has  forgot 
ten  her  trust, 

And  the  lip  of  her  honor  is  low  in  the 
dust,— 

Thank  God,  that  one  arm  from  the 
shackle  has  broken ! 

Thank  God,  that  one  man  as  a  free 
man  has  spoken! 

O'er  thy  crags,  Alleghany,  a  blast  has 

been  blown ! 
Down     thy     tide,    Susquehanna,    the 

murmur   has   gone ! 
To    the   land   of   the    South,— of   the 

charter  and  chain,— 
Of  Liberty  sweetened  with  Slavery's 

pain; 
Where  the  cant  of  Democracy  dwells 

on  the  lips 
Of  the  forgers  of  fetters,  and  wielders 

of  whips ! 
Where  "chivalric"  honor  means  really 

no  more 

Than  scourging  of  women,  and  rob 
bing  the  poor ! 


LINES. 


67 


Where  the  Moloch  of  Slavery  sitteth 

on  high, 
And  the  words  which  he  utters,  are — 

WORSHIP,  OR  DIE! 

Right  onward,  O  speed  it!  Wherever 
the  blood 

Of  the  wronged  and  the  guiltless  is 
crying  to  God ; 

Wherever  a  slave  in  his  fetters  is  pin 
ing; 

Wherever  the  lash  of  the  driver  is 
twining; 

Wherever  from  kindred,  torn  rudely 
apart, 

Comes  the  sorrowful  wail  of  the 
broken  of  heart; 

Wherever  the  shackles  of  tyranny 
bind, 

In  silence  and  darkness,  the  Cod- 
given  mind; 

There,  God  speed  it  onward! — its 
truth  will  be  felt,— 

The  bonds  shall  be  loosened, — the 
iron  shall  melt ! 


And  O,  will  the  land  where  the  free 

soul  of  PENN 

Still  lingers  and  breathes  over  moun 
tain  and  glen, — 
Will    the    land    where  a   BENEZET'S 

spirit  went  forth 
To   the  peeled,   and   the   meted,   and 

outcast  of  Earth, — 
Where  the  words  of  the  Charter  of 

Liberty  first 
From  the  soul  of  the  sage  and  the 

patriot  burst, — 
Where  first  for  the  wronged  and  the 

weak  of  their  kind, 
The    Christian    and    statesman    their 

efforts   combined, — 
Will  that   land  of  the   free  and  the 

good  wear  a  chain? 
Will  the  call  to  the  rescue  of  Freedom 

be  vain  ? 


No,  RITNER  !— her  "  Friends  "  at  thy 
warning  shall  stand 


Erect  for  the  truth,  like  their  ances 
tral  band; 

Forgetting  the  feuds  and  the  strife  of 
past  time, 

Counting  coldness  injustice,  and  si 
lence  a  crime; 

Turning  back  from  the  cavil  of 
creeds,  to  unite 

Once  again  for  the  poor  in  defence  of 
the  Right; 

Breasting  calmly,  but  firmly,  the  full 
tide  of  Wrong, 

Overwhelmed,  but  not  borne  on  its 
surges  along; 

Unappalled  by  the  danger,  the  shame, 
and  the  pain, 

And  counting  each  trial  for  Truth  as 
their  gain! 


And  that  bold-hearted  yeomanry,  hon 
est  and  true, 

Who,  haters  of  fraud,  give  to  labor 
its  due; 

Whose  fathers,  of  old,  sang  in  con 
cert  with  thine, 

On  the  banks  of  Swetara,  the  songs 
of  the  Rhine, — 

The  German-born  pilgrims,  who  first 
dared  to  brave 

The  scorn  of  the  proud  in  the  cause 
of  the  slave: — 

Will  the  sons  of  such  men  yield  the 
lords  of  the  South 

One  brow  for  the  brand,— for  the 
padlock  one  mouth? 

They  cater  to  tyrants  ?— They  rivet 
the  chain, 

Which  their  fathers  smote  off,  on  the 
negro  again? 


No,  never ! — one  voice,  like  the  sound 

in  the  cloud, 
When  the  roar  of  the  storm  waxes 

loud  and  more  loud, 
Wherever    the    foot   of   the   freeman 

hath  pressed 
From  the  Delaware's   marge  to  the 

Lake  of  the  West, 
On    the    South-going    breezes     shall 

deepen  and  grow 


G8 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


Till  the  land  it  sweeps  over  shall 
tremble  below ! 

The  voice  of  a  PEOPLE, — uprisen, — 
awake, — 

Pennsylvania's  watchword,  with  Free 
dom  at  stake, 

Thrilling  up  from  each  valley,  flung 
down  from  each  height, 

"  OUR  COUNTRY  AND  LIBERTY  ! — GOD 
FOR  THE  RIGHT  !  " 


THE  PASTORAL  LETTER. 

So,  this  is  all, — the  utmost  reach 
Of  priestly  power  the  mind  to  fet 
ter! 
When    laymen    think— when    women 

preach — 

A  war  of  words — a  "  Pastoral  Let 
ter  !  " 

Now,  shame  upon  ye,  parish  Popes ! 
Was  it  thus  with  those,  your  prede 
cessors, 
Who  sealed  with  racks,  and  fire,  and 

ropes 

Their  loving-kindness  to  transgres 
sors  ? 


A  "  Pastoral  Letter,"  grave  and  dull — 
Alas !   in  hoof  and  horn  and  fea 
tures, 

How  different  is  your  Brookfield  bull, 
From   him   who   bellows   from   St. 

Peter's ! 
Your  pastoral  rights  and  powers  from 

harm, 
Think  ye,  can  words  alone  preserve 

them? 

Your  wiser  fathers  taught  the  arm 
And  sword  of  temporal  power  to 
serve  them. 


O,  glorious  days,— when  Church  and 

State 

Were  wedded  by  your  spiritual  fa 
thers  ! 

And  on  submissive  shoulders  sat 
Your  Wilsons  and  your  Cotton  Ma 
thers. 


No  vile  "  itinerant "  then  could  mar 
The  beauty  of  your  tranquil  Zion, 

But  at  his  peril  of  the  scar 
Of  hangman's  whip  and  branding- 


Then,   wholesome   laws   relieved   the 

Church 

Of  hereic  and  mischief-maker, 
And  priest  and  bailiff  joined  in  search, 
By    turns,    of    Papist,    witch,    and 

"Quaker ! 
The    stocks    were    at    each    church's 

door, 

The  gallows  stood  on  Boston  Com 
mon, 

A  Papist's  ears  the  pillory  bore, — 
The  gallows-rope,  a  Quaker  woman  ! 

Your  fathers  dealt  not  as  ye  deal 
With       "  non-professing "       frantic 

teachers ; 
They  bored  the  tongue  with  red-hot 

steel, 
And   flayed  the  backs   of   "  female 

preachers." 

Old  Newbury,  had  her  fields  a  tongue, 
And  Salem's  streets  could  tell  their 

story, 

Of  fainting  woman  dragged  along, 
Gashed  by  the  whip,  accursed  and 
gory ! 

And  will  ye  ask  me,  why  this  taunt 

Of     memories    sacred     from     the 

scorner? 
And  why  with  reckless  hand  I  plant 

A  nettle  on  the  graves  ye  honor? 
Not  to  reproach  New  England's  dead 

This  record  from  the  past  I  sum 
mon, 
Of  manhood  to  the  scaffold  led, 

And  suffering  and  heroic  woman. 

No, — for  yourselves  alone,  I  turn 
The  pages  of  intolerance  over, 

That,  in  their  spirit,  dark  and  stern, 
Ye  haply  may  your  own  discover ! 

For,  if  ye  claim  the  "  pastoral  right," 
To     silence     Freedom's     voice     of 
warning, 


LINES. 


And   from  your  precincts    shut    the 

light 

Of  Freedom's  day  around  ye  dawn 
ing; 

If  when  an  earthquake  voice  of  power, 
And  signs  in  earth  and  heaven,  are 

showing 

That  forth,  in  its  appointed  hour, 
The  Spirit  of  the  Lord  is  going! 
And,  with  that  Spirit,  Freedom's  light 
On    kindred,    tongue,    and    people 

breaking, 
Whose    slumbering   millions,    at     the 

sight, 
In  glory  and  in  strength  are  waking ! 

When  for  the  sighing  of  the  poor, 

And  for  the  needy,  God  hath  risen, 
And  chains  are  breaking,  and  a  door 

Is  opening  for  the  souls  in  prison ! 
If  then  ye  would,  with  puny  hands, 

Arrest  the  very  work  of  Heaven, 
And  bind  anew  the  evil  bands 

Which   God's   right  arm  of  power 
hath  riven, — 

What  marvel  that,  in  many  a  mind, 

Those  darker  deeds  of  bigot  mad 
ness 
Are  closely  with  your  own  combined, 

Yet  "  less  in  anger  .  than    in    sad 
ness  "  ? 
What  marvel,  if  the  people  learn 

To  claim  the  right  of  free  opinion? 
What  marvel,  if  at  times  they  spurn 

The  ancient  yoke  of  your  dominion  ? 

A  glorious  remnant  linger  yet, 

Whose   lips  are   wet  at   Freedom's 

fountains, 
The  coming  of  whose  welcome  feet 

Is  beautiful  upon  our  mountains ! 
Men,  who  the  gospel  tidings  bring 

Of  Liberty  and  Love  forever, 
Whose  joy  is  an  abiding  spring. 

Whose  peace  is  as  a  gentle  river! 

But  ye,  who  scorn  the  thrilling  tale 
Of    Carolina's    high-souled    daugh 
ters, 

Which  echoes  here  the  mournful  wail 
Of  sorrow  from  Edisto's  waters, 


Close  while  ye  may  the  public  ear, — 
With    malice    vex,    with     slander 

wound  them, — 
The  pure  and  good  shall  throng  to 

hear, 

And  tried  and  manly  hearts  sur- 
round  them. 

O,  ever  may  the  power  which  led 
Their  way  to  such  a  fiery  trial, 
And     strengthened     womanhood     to 

tread 

The  wine-press  of  such  self-denial, 
Be  round  them  in  an  evil  land, 
With    wisdom    and    with    strength 

from  Heaven, 
With    Miriam's   voice,   and    Judith's 

hand, 

And  Deborah's   song,  for  triumph 
given ! 

And  what  are  ye  who  strive  with  God 

Against  the  ark  of  his  salvation, 
Moved  by  the  breath  of  prayer  abroad, 

With  blessings  for  a  dying  nation? 
What,  but  the  stubble  and  the  hay 

To  perish,  even  as  flax  consuming, 
With  all  that  bars  his  glorious  way, 

Before  the  brightness  of  his  corn^ 
ing? 

And  thou,  sad  Angel,  who  so  long 

Hast  waited  for  the  glorious  token, 
That   Earth   from   all  her  bonds   of 
wrong 

To  liberty  and  light  has  broken, — • 
Angel  of  Freedom!  soon  to  thee 

The     sounding     trumpet    shall    be 

given, 
And  over  Earth's  full  jubilee 

Shall  deeper  joy  be  felt  in  Heaven! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN   FOR   THE    MEETING  OF  THE 
ANTI-SLAVERY  SOCIETY,  AT  CHATHAM 

STREET   CHAPEL,    N.    Y.,    HELD   ON   THE 
4TH  OF  THE  7TH   MONTH,  1834. 

O  THOU,  whose  presence  went  before 
Our  fathers  in  their  weary  way, 


70 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


As  with  thy  chosen  moved  of  yore 
The  fire  by  night,  the  cloud  by  day ! 

When  from  each  temple  of  the  free, 
A  nation's  song  ascends  to  Heaven, 

Most  Holy  Father!  unto  thee 

May   not   our    humble    prayer    be 
given  ? 

Thy  children  all, — though  hue  and 
form 

Are  varied  in  thine  own  good  will, — 
With  thy  own  holy  breathings  warm, 

And  fashioned  in  thine  image  still. 

We  thank    thee,    Father!— hill    and 

plain 
Around  us  wave  their  fruits  once 

more, 
And   clustered   vine,    and   blossomed 

grain, 

Are  bending   round    each    cottage 
door. 

And  peace  is  here;  and  hope  and 
love 

Are  round  us  as  a  mantle  thrown, 
And  unto  Thee,  supreme  above, 

The  knee  of  prayer  is  bowed  alone. 

But  O,  for  those  this  day  can  bring, 
As  unto  us,  no  joyful  thrill, — 

For  those  who,  under  Freedom's  wing, 
Are  bound  in  Slavery's  fetters  still : 

For  those  to  whom  thy  living  word 
Of  light  and  love  is  never  given, — 

For  those  whose  ears  have  never  heard 
The    promise    and    the    hope     of 
Heaven ! 


For  broken  heart,  and  clouded  mind, 
Whereon  no  human  mercies  fall, — 

O,  be  thy  gracious  love  inclined, 
Who,  as  a  Father,  pitiest  all! 

And  grant,  O  Father!  that  the  time 
Of  Earth's  deliverance  may  be  near, 
When    every    land    and    tongue    and 
clime 


The   message    of    thy    love    shall 
hear, — 

When,   smitten    as    with    fire    from 

heaven, 
The  captive's  chain    shall    sink    in 

dust, 

And  to  his  fettered  soul  be  given 
The  glorious  freedom  of  the  just! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  CELEBRATION  OF  THE 
THIRD  ANNIVERSARY  OF  BRITISH 
EMANCIPATION  AT  THE  BROADWAY 
TABERNACLE,  N.  Y.,  "  EIRST  OF  AU 
GUST/'  1837. 

O  HOLY  FATHER! — just  and  true 

Are  all  thy  works  and  words  and 

ways, 
And  unto  thee  alone  are  due 

Thanksgiving  and  eternal  praise , 
As  children  of  thy  gracious  care, 

We  veil  the  eye,  we  bend  the  knee, 
With    broken    words    of    praise    and 
prayer, 

Father  and  God,  we  come  to  thee. 

For  thou  hast  heard,  O  God  of  Right, 

The  sighing  of  the  island  slave ; 
And  stretched  for  him  the    arm    of 

might, 

Not  shortened  that  it  could  not  save. 
The  laborer  sits  beneath  his  vine, 
The  shackled  soul  arid    hand    are 

free,-. 
Thanksgiving!  —  for     the     work     is 

thine ! 
Praise ! — for  the  blessing  is  of  thee  ! 

And  O,  we  feel  thy  presence  here, — 

Thy  awful  arm  in  judgment  bare! 

Thine  eye  hath  seen  the  bondman's 

tear,— 
Thine  ear  hath  heard  the  bondman's 

prayer. 

Praise ! — for  the  pride  of  man  is  low, 
The  counsels  of  the  wise  are  naught, 


LINES. 


71 


The  fountains  of  repentance  flow; 
What    hath    our     God    in    mercy 
wrought  ? 

Speed   on   thy   work,   Lord    God   of 
Hosts ! 

And  when  the  bondman's  chain  is 

riven, 
And  swells  from  all  our  guilty  coasts 

The  anthem  of  the  free  to  Heaven, 
O,  not  to  those  whom  thou  hast  led, 

As  with  thy  cloud  and  fire  before, 
But  unto  thee,  in  fear  and  dread, 

Be  praise  and  glory  evermore. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  ANNIVERSARY  CELE 
BRATION  OF  THE  FIRST  OF  AUGUST,  AT 
MILTON,  1846. 

A  FEW  brief  years  have  passed  away 
Since  Britain  drove  her  million 

slaves 

Beneath  the  tropic's  fiery  ray: 
God  willed  their  freedom ;  and  to-day 
Life    blooms     above    those     island 
graves ! 

He  spoke!  across  the  Carib  Sea, 
We    heard    the    clash    of   breaking 

chains, 

And  felt  the  heart-throb  of  the  free, 
The  first,  strong  pulse  of  liberty 
Which    thrilled    along    the    bond 
man's  veins. 


Though   long  delayed,  and   far,   and 

slow, 

The  Briton's  triumph  shall  be  ours : 
Wears  slavery  here  a  prouder  brow 
Than  that  which  twelve  short  years 

ago 

Scowled   darkly    from    her    island 
bowers  ? 

Mighty  alike  for  good  or  ill 
With  mother-land,  we  fully  share 


The    Saxon    strength, — the   nerve   of 

steel,— 

The  tireless  energy  of  will, — 
The  power  to  do,  the  pride  to  dare. 


What  she  has  done  can  we  not  do? 
Our  hour  and  men  are  both  at  hand ; 
The   blast    which    Freedom's    angel 

blew 
O'er      her      green      islands,      echoes 

through 
Each  valley  of  our  forest  land. 

Hear  it,  old  Europe!  we  have  sworn 
The    death    of    slavery. — When    it 

falls, 

Look  to  your  vassals  in  their  turn, 
Your  poor  dumb  millions,  crushed  and 

worn, 

Your     prisons     and     your     palace 
walls ! 

O  kingly  mockers! — scoffing  show 
What  deeds  in  Freedom's  name  we 

do; 

Yet  know  that  every  taunt  ye  throw 
Across  the  waters,  goads  our  slow 
Progression  towards  the  right  and 
true. 

Not  always  shall  your  outraged  poor, 

Appalled  by  democratic  crime, 
Grind    as    their    fathers    ground    be 
fore, — 

The  hour  which  sees  our  prison  door 
Swing  wide  shall  be  their  triumph 
time. 

On  then,  my  brothers !  every  blow 
Ye    deal    is    felt    the    wide    earth 

through ; 

Whatever  here  uplifts  the  low 
Or  humbles  Freedom's  hateful  foe, 
Blesses  the  Old  World  through  the 
New. 

Take    heart!      The    promised    hour 
draws  near, — 


72 


LINES. 


I  hear  the  downward  beat  of  wings, 
And     Freedom's    trumpet    sounding 

clear : 

"  Toy  to  the  people ! — woe  and  fear 
To  new-world    tyrants,    old-world 
kings ! " 


THE  FAREWELL 

OF  A  VIRGINIA  SLAVE  MOTHER  TO  HER 
DAUGHTERS  SOLD  INTO  SOUTHERN 
BONDAGE. 

GONE,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
Where      the      slave-whip      ceaseless 

swings, 

Where  the  noisome  insect  stings, 
Where  the  fever  demon  strews 
Poison  with  the  falling  dews, 
Where  the  sickly  sunbeams  glare 
Through  the  hot  and  misty  air, — 
Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
There  no  mother's  eye  is  near  them, 
There  no  mother's  ear  can  hear  them ; 
Never,  when  the  torturing  lash 
Seams  their  back  with  many  a  gash, 
Shall  a  mother's  kindness  bless  them, 
Or  a  mother's  arms  caress  them. 
Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
O,  when  weary,  sad,  and  slow, 
From  the  fields  at  night  they  go, 
Faint  with  toil,  and  racked  with  pain, 
To  their  cheerless  homes  again. 


There  no  brother's  voice  shall  greet 

them, — 
There    no     father's     welcome     meet 

them. 

Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  the  tree  whose  shadow  lay 
On  their  childhood's  place  of  play, — 
From    the    cool    spring    where     they 

drank, — 

Rock,  and  hill,  and  rivulet  bank, — 
From  the  solemn  house  of  prayer, 
And  the  holy  counsels  there, — 
Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 


Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 

To     the     rice-swamp     dank      and 

lone, — 

Toiling  through  the  weary  day, 
And  at  night  the  spoiler's  prey. 
O  that  they  had  earlier  died, 
Sleeping  calmly,  side  by  side, 
Where  the  tyrant's  power  is  o'er, 
And  the  fetter  galls  no  more! 
Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 


Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
By  the  holy  love  He  beareth, — 
By  the  bruised  reed  He  spareth, — 
O,  may  He,  to  whom  alone 
All  their  cruel  wrongs  are  known, 
Still  their  hope  and  refuge  prove, 
With  a  more  than  mother's  love. 
Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 


THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION. 


73 


THE   MORAL   WARFARE. 

WHEN  Freedom,  on  her  natal  day, 
Within  her  war-rocked  cradle  lay, 
An  iron  race  around  her  stood, 
Baptized  her  infant  brow  in  blood ; 
And,  through  the  storm  which  round 

her  swept, 
Their  constant  ward    and    watching 

kept. 

Then,  where  our  quiet  herds  repose, 
The  roar  of  baleful  battle  rose, 
And  brethren  of  a  common  tongue 
To  mortal  strife  as  tigers  sprung. 
And  every  gift  on  Freedom's  shrine 
Was  man   for  beast,  and  blood   for 
wine ! 


Our   fathers    to    their    graves    have 

gone ; 
Their    strife    is    past,— their   triumph 

won; 

But  sterner  trials  wait  the  race 
Which  rises  in  their  honored  place, — 
A  moral  warfare  with  the  crime 
And  folly  of  an  evil  time. 

So  let  it  be.    In  God's  own  might 
We  gird  us  for  the  coming  fight. 
And,  strong  in  Him  whose  cause  is 

ours 

In  conflict  with  unholy  powers, 
We     grasp     the     weapons     He     has 

given, — 
The  Light,  and  Truth,  and  Love  of 

Heaven. 


THE    WORLD'S    CONVENTION 

OF     THE     FRIENDS      OF     EMANCIPATION, 
HELD  IN  LONDON  IN   1840. 

YES,  let  them  gather ! — Summon  forth 
The  pledged  philanthropy  of  Earth, 
From  every   land,  whose   hills   have 
heard 


The  bugle  blast  of  Freedom  wak 
ing; 
Or  shrieking  of  her   symbol-bird 

From  out  his  cloudy  eyrie  breaking : 
Where  Justice  hath  one  worshipper, 
Or  truth  one  altar  built  to  her; 
Where'er  a  human  eye  is  weeping 
O'er    wrongs     which     Earth's     sad 

children  know, — 

Where'er  a  single  heart  is  keeping 
Its   prayerful   watch    with    human 

woe: 
Theme  let  them  come,  and  greet  each 

other, 

And    know    in    each    a     friend    and 
brother ! 


Yes,  let  them  come!  from  each  green 

vale 

Where  England's  old  baronial  halls 
Still  bear  upon  their  storied  walls 
The  grim  crusader's  rusted  mail, 
Battered  by  Paynim  spear  and  brand 
On  Malta's  rock  or  Syria's  sand! 
And  mouldering  pennon-staves  once 

set 

Within  the  soil  of  Palestine, 
By  Jordan  and  Genessaret; 
Or,    borne    with    England's    battle 

line, 

O'er  Acre's   shattered  turrets  stoop 
ing, 
Or,  midst  the    camp    their    banners 

drooping, 
With  dews  from  hallowed  Hermon 

wet, 

A  holier  summons  now  is  given 
Than   that   gray  hermit's    voice  of 

old, 
Which  unto  all  the  winds  of  heaven 

The  banners  of  the  Cross  unrolled ! 
Not  for  the  long-deserted  shrine,— 
Not  for  the  dull  unconscious  sod, 
Which  tells  not  by  one  lingering  sign 
That    there    the    hope    of    Israel 

trod;— 

But  for  that  TRUTH,  for  which  alone 
In  pilgrim  eyes  are  sanctified 


74 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


The  garden  moss,  the  mountain  stone, 

Whereon  his  holy  sandals  pressed, — 

The    fountain    which     his     lip     hath 
blessed, — • 

Whate'er  hath  touched  his  garment's 
hem 

At  Bethany  or  Bethlehem, 

,    Or  Jordan's  river-side. 

For  FREEDOM,  in  the  name  of  Him 
Who  came  to  raise  Earth's  droop 
ing  poor, 

To  break  the  chain  from  every  limb, 

The  bolt  from  every  prison  door! 

For    these,    o'er   all    the    earth    hath 
passed 

An  ever-deepening  trumpet  blast, 

As  if  an  angel's  breath  had  lent 

Its  vigor  to  the  instrument. 


And  Wales,  from  Snowden's  moun 
tain  wall, 
Shall  startle  at  that  thrilling  call, 

As  if  she  heard  her  bards  again ; 
And  Erin's  "  harp  on  Tara's  wall " 

Give  out  its  ancient  strain, 
Mirthful  and  sweet,  yet  sad  withal, — 

The  melody  which  Erin  loves, 
When  o'er  that  harp,  'mid  bursts  of 

gladness 

And  slogan  cries  and  lyke-wake  sad 
ness, 

The  hand  of  her  O'Connell  moves ! 
Scotland,  from  lake  and  tarn  and  rill, 
And  mountain  hold,  and  heathery 

hill, 
Shall    catch    and    echo    back    the 

note, 

As  if  she  heard  upon  her  air 
Once  more  her  Cameronian's  prayer 

And  song  of  Freedom  float. 
And  cheering  echoes  shall  reply 
From  each  remote  dependency, 
Where     Britain's     mighty     sway     is 

known, 

In  tropic  sea  or  frozen  zone ; 
Where'er  her  sunset  flag  is  furling, 
Or  morning  gun-fire's  smoke  is  curl 
ing; 

From  Indian  Bengal's  groves  of  palm 
And  rosy  fields  and  gales  of  balm, 


Where  Eastern  pomp  and  power  are 

rolled 

Through  regal  Ava's  gates  of  gold ; 
And  from  the  lakes  and  ancient  woods 
And  dim  Canadian  solitudes, 
Whence,     sternly     from     her      rocky 

throne, 
Queen  of   the   North,   Quebec   looks 

down; 
And  from  those  bright  and  ransomed 

Isles 

Where  all  unwonted  Freedom  smiles, 
And  the  dark  laborer  still  retains 
The  scar  of  slavery's  broken  chains! 

From  the  hoar  Alps,  which  sentinel 
The  gateways  of  the  land  of  Tell, 
Where   morning's   keeft   and   earliest 

glance 

On  Jura's  rocky  wall  is  thrown, 
And  from  the  olive  bowers  of  France 
And    vine    groves    garlanding    the 

Rhone, — 
"  Friends  of  the  Blacks,"  as  true  and 

tried 

As  those  who  stood  by  Oge's  side, 
And   heard    the    Haytien's    tale    of 

wrong, 
Shall      gather      at      that      summons 

strong, — 

Broglie,  Passy,  and  him  whose  song 
Breathed  over  Syria's  holy  sod, 
And  in  the  paths  which  Jesus  trod, 
And  murmured  midst  the  hills  which 

hem 

Crownless  and  sad  Jerusalem, 
Hath  echoes  wheresoe'er  the  tone 
Of  Israel's  prophet-lyre  is  known. 

Still   let  them    come, — from    Quito's 
walls, 

And  from  the  Orinoco's  tide, 
From  Lima's  Inca-haunted  halls, 
From  Santa  Fe  and  Yucatan, — 

Men  who  by  swart  Guerrero's  side 
Proclaimed   the   deathless   RIGHTS  OF 

MAN, 

Broke  every  bond  and  fetter  off, 
And  hailed  in  every  sable  serf 

A  free  and  brother  Mexican! 

Chiefs  who  across  the  Andes'  chain 


THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION. 


75 


Have  followed   Freedom's   flowing 

pennon, 

And  seen  on  Junin's  fearful  plain, 
Glare  o'er  the  broken  ranks  of  Spain 

The  fire-burst  of  Bolivar's  cannon ! 
And  Hayti,  from  her  mountain  land, 

Shall  send  the  sons  of  those  who 

hurled 

Defiance  from  her  blazing  strand, — 
The  war-gage  from  her  Petion's  hand, 

Alone  against  a  hostile  world. 

Nor  all  unmindful,  thou,  the  while, 
Land  of  the  dark  and  mystic  Nile! — 

Thy  Moslem  mercy  yet  may  shame 

All  tyrants  of  a  Christian  name, — 
When  in  the  shade  of  Gizeh's  pile, 
Or,  where  from  Abyssinian  hills 
El  Gerek's  upper  fountain  fills, 
Or   where    from    Mountains    of    the 

Moon 

El  Abiad  bears  his  watery  boon, 
Where'er  thy  lotus  blossoms  swim 

Within     their      ancient      hallowed 

waters, — 
Where'er  is  heard  the  Coptic  hymn, 

Or   song  of   Nubia's    sable   daugh 
ters,— 

The  curse  of  SLAVERY  and  the  crime, 
Thy  bequest  from  remotest  time, 
At  thy  dark  Mehemet's  decree 
Forevermore  shall  pass  from  thee ; 

And  chains   forsake  each  captive's 

limb 

Of  all  those  tribes,  whose  hills  around 
Have  echoed  back  the  cymbal  sound 

And  victor  horn  of  Ibrahim. 

And    thou    whose    glory    and    whose 

crime 

To  earth's  remotest  bound  and  clime, 
In  mingled  tones  of  awe  and  scorn, 
The  echoes  of  a  world  have  borne, 
My  country !  glorious  at  thy  birth, 
A  day-star  flashing  brightly  forth, — 
The.     herald-sign      of      Freedom's 

dawn ! 
O,   who  could   dream  that  saw  thee 

then, 

And  watched  thy  rising  from  afar, 
That  vapors  from  oppression's  fen 


Would   cloud  the  upward  tending 

star? 
Or,  that  earth's  tyrant  powers,  which 

heard, 
Awe-struck,  the  shout  which  hailed 

thy  dawning, 
Would  rise  so  soon,  prince,  peer,  and 

king, 

To  mock  thee  with  their  welcoming, 
Like  Hades  when  her  thrones  were 

stirred 
To    greet   the    down-cast    Star    of 

Morning! 

"Aha!  and  art  thou  fallen  thus? 
Art  THOU  become  as  one  of  us?  " 

Land  of  my  fathers  ! — there  will  stand, 
Amidst  that  world-assembled  band, 
Those  owning  thy  maternal  claim 
Unweakened      by     thy     crime      and 

shame,— 

The   sad   reprovers   of   thy   wrong, — 
The   children  thou   hast   spurned   so 

long. 

Still  with  affection's  fondest  yearning 
To  their  unnatural  mother  turning. 
No  traitors  they ! — but  tried  and  leal. 
Whose  own  is  but  thy  general  weal, 
Still  blending  with  the  patriot's  zeal 
The  Christian's  love  for  human  kind, 
To  caste  and  climate  unconfined. 

A  holy  gathering !— peaceful  all: 
No  threat  of  war, — no  savage  call 

For  vengeance  on  an  erring  brother ; 
But  in  their  stead  the  godlike  plan 
To  teach  the  brotherhood  of  man 

To  love  and  reverence  one  another, 
As  sharers  of  a  common  blood, 
The  children  of  a  common  God!— 
Yet,   even  at  its   lightest  word, 
Shall     Slavery's     darkest    depths    be 

stirred : 

Spain,  watching  from  her  Moro's  keep 
Her  slave-ships  traversing  the  deep, 
And  Rio,  in  her  strength  and  pride, 
Lifting,  along  her  mountain-side, 
Her  snowy  battlements  and  towers, — 
Her  lemon-groves  and  tropic  bowers, 
With  bitter  hate  and  sullen  fear 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


Its  freedom-giving  voice  shall  hear ; 
And  where  my  country's  flag  is  flow 
ing, 

On  breezes  from  Mount  Vernon  blow 
ing 

Above  the  Nation's  council  halls, 
Where  Freedom's  praise  is  loud  and 

long, 
While   close   beneath   the   outward 

walls 

The  driver  plies  his  reeking  thong, — 
The  hammer  of  the  man-thief  falls, 
O'er  hypocritic  cheek  and  brow 
The   crimson   flush   of    shame    shall 

glow : 

And  all  who  for  their  native  land 
Are    pledging    life     and     heart     and 

hand, — 
Worn    watchers    o'er    her    changing 

weal, 

Who  for  her  tarnished  honor  feel, — 
Through  cottage  door    and    council- 
hall 

Shall  thunder  an  awakening  call. 
The  pen  along  its  page  shall  burn 
With  all  intolerable  scorn, — 
An  eloquent  rebuke  shall  go 
On    all    the   winds    that     Southward 

blow, — 
From  priestly   lips,  now   sealed  and 

dumb, 

Warning  and  dread  appeal  shall  come, 
Like  those  which  Israel  heard  from 

him, 

The  Prophet  of  the  Cherubim,— - 
Or  those  which  sad  Esaias  hurled 
Against  a  sin-accursed  world ! 
Its  wizard  leaves  the  Press  shall  fling 
Unceasing  from  its  iron  wing, 
With  characters  inscribed  thereon, 

As  fearful  in  the  despot's  hall 
As  to  the  pomp  of  Babylon 

The  fire-sign  on  the  palace  wall ! 
And,  from  her  dark  iniquities, 
Methinks  I  see  my  country  rise : 
Not  challenging  the  nations  round 
To  note  her  tardy  justice  done, — 
Her  captives   from  their  chains  un 
bound, 
Her  prisons  opening  to  the  sun : — 


But  tearfully  her  arms  extending 
Over  the  poor  and  unoffending; 

Her  regal  emblem  now  no  longer 
A  bird  of  prey,  with  talons  reeking, 
Above  the  dying  captive  shrieking, 
But,  spreading  out  her  ample  wing, — 
A  broad,  impartial  covering, — 

The  weaker  sheltered  by  the  strong 
er  !— 
O,  then  to  Faith's  anointed  eyes 

The  promised  token  shall  be  given ; 
And  on  a  nation's  sacrifice, 
Atoning  for  the  sin  of  years, 
And  wet  with  penitential  tears, — 

The  fire  shall  fall  from  Heaven ! 
1839- 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

1845. 

GOD  bless  New  Hampshire ! — from  her 

granite  peaks 
Once  more  the  voice  of   Stark  and 

Langdon  speaks. 
The  long-bound  vassal  of  the  exulting 

South 
For    very    shame     her    self-forged 

chain  has  broken, — 
Torn  the  black  seal  of  slavery  from 

her  mouth, 
And  in  the  clear  tones  of  her  old 

time  spoken ! 
O,  all  undreamed-of,  all  unhoped-for 

changes ! — 

The  tyrant's  ally  proves  his  stern 
est  foe; 

To  all  his  biddings,  from  her  moun 
tain  ranges, 

New  Hampshire  thunders  an  indig 
nant  No! 
Who  is  it  now  despairs?    O,  faint  of 

heart, 
Look    upward    to    those    Northern 

mountains  cold, 
Flouted    by    Freedom's    victor-flag 

unrolled, 

And  gather  strength  to  bear  a  man 
lier  part ! 


We  thank  Thee,  Father!— hill  and  plain 
Around  us  wave  their  fruits  once  more; 

And  cluster'd  vine,  and  blossom'd  grain, 
Are  bending  round  each  cottage  door. 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 


All  is  not  lost.     The  angel  of  God's 

blessing 
Encamps  with  Freedom  on  the  field 

of  fight; 
Still  to  her  banner,  day  by  day,  are 

pressing, 
Unlooked-for  allies,  striking  for  the 

right ! 
Courage,  then,  Northern  hearts  ! — Be 

firm,  be  true: 
What  one  brave  State  hath  done,  can 

ye  not  also  do? 


THE  NEW  YEAR: 

ADDRESSED     TO     THE     PATRONS     OF     THE 
PENNSYLVANIA  FREEMAN. 

THE  wave  is  breaking  on  the  shore, — 
The  echo  fading  from  the  chime, — 

Again  the  shadow  moveth  o'er 
The  dial-plate  of  time ! 

O,  seer-seen  Angel !  waiting  now 

With  weary  feet  on  sea  and  shore, 
Impatient  for  the  last  dread  vow 

That  time  shall  be  no  more ! 
Once  more  across  thy  sleepless  eye 

The     semblance    of    a    smile    has 

passed : 
The  year  departing  leaves  more  nigh 

Time's  fearfullest  and  last 

O,  in  that  dying  year  hath  been 
The  sum  of  all  since  time  began, — 

The  birth  and  death,  the  joy  and  pain, 
Of  Nature  and  of  Man. 

Spring,  with  her  change  of  sun  and 

shower, 
And  streams  released  from  winter's 

chain, 

And  bursting  bud,  and  opening  flower, 
And  greenly  growing  grain; 

And   Summer's   shade,  and   sunshine 
warm, 


And   rainbows    o'er    her    hill-tops 

bowed, 

And  voices  in  her  rising  storm, — 
God  speaking  from  his  cloud! — 

And   Autumn's  fruits  and  clustering 

sheaves, 
And   soft,  warm    days    of    golden 

light, 

The  glory  of  her  forest  leaves, 
And  harvest-moon  at  night; 

And  Winter  with  her  leafless  grove. 
And  prisoned  stream,  and  drifting 
snow, 

The  brilliance  of  her  heaven  above 
And  of  her  earth  below: — 

And  man, — in  whom  an  angel's  mind 
With  earth's  low  instincts  finds 
abode, — 

The  highest  of  the  links  which  bind 
Brute  nature  to  her  God; 

His  infant  eye  hath  seen  the  light, 
His  childhood's   merriest    laughter 
rung, 

And  active  sports  to  manlier  might 
The  nerves  of  boyhood  strung! 

And  quiet  love,  and  passion's  fires, 
Have  soothed  or  burned   in  man 
hood's  breast, 

And  lofty  aims  and  low  desires 
By  turns  disturbed  his  rest. 

The  wailing  of  the  newly-born 
Has  mingled  with  the  funeral  knell ; 

And  o'er  the  dying's  ear  has  gone 
The  merry  marriage-bell. 

And  Wealth  has  filled  his  halls  with 

mirth, 
While    Want,    in   many    a    humble 

shed, 
Toiled,    shivering   by    her    cheerless 

hearth, 
The  live-long  night  for  bread. 

And    worse     than    all,— the     human 
slave, — 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


The  sport  of  lust,  and  pride,  and 

scorn ! 
Plucked    off    the    crown    his  Maker 

gave, — 
His  regal  manhood  gone! 

O,  still,  my  country !  o'er  thy  plains, 
Blackened  with  slavery's  blight  and 
ban, 

That  human  chattel  drags  his  chains, — 
An  uncreated  man ! 

And  still,  where'er  to  sun  and  breeze, 
My  country,  is  thy  flag  unrolled, 

With  scorn,  the  gazing  stranger  sees 
A  stain  on  every  fold. 

O,  tear  the  gorgeous  emblem  down! 

It  gathers  scorn  from  every  eye, 
And    despots    smile    and    good    men 
frown 

Whene'er   it   passes   by. 

Shame !  shame !  its  starry  splendors 
glow 

Above  the  slaver's  loathsome  jail, — 
Its  folds  are  ruffling  even  now 

His  crimson  flag  of  sale. 

Still  round  our  country's  proudest 
hall 

The  trade  in  human  flesh  is  driven, 
And  at  each  careless  hammer-fall 

A  human  heart  is  riven. 

And  this,  too,  sanctioned  by  the  men, 
Vested  with  power  to  shield  the 
right, 

And  throw  each  vile  and  robber  den 
Wide  open  to  the  light. 

Yet,   shame  upon  them! — there  they 

sit, 
Men  of  the   North,    subdued    and 

still  ;< 

Meek,  pliant  poltroons,  only  fit 
To  work  a  master's  will. 

Sold, — bargained    off    for     Southern 

votes, — 
A  passive  herd  of  Northern  mules, 


Just  braying  through  their  purchased 

throats 
Whate'er  their  owner  rules. 

And  he, — the  basest  of  the  base, 
The     vilest     of     the     vile, — whose 
name, 

Embalmed  in  infinite  disgrace, 
Is  deathless  in  its  shame! — 

A  tool, — to  bolt  the  people's  door 
Against  the  people  clamoring  there, 

An  ass, — to  trample  on  their  floor 
A  people's  right  of  prayer ! 

Nailed  to  his  self-made  gibbet  fast, 
Self-pilloried  to  the  public  view, — 

A  mark  for  every  passing  blast 
Of  scorn  to  whistle  through; 

There  let  him  hang,    and    hear    the 

boast 
Of     Southrons     o'er     their     pliant 

tool,— 

A  St.  Stylites  on  his  post, 
"  Sacred  to  ridicule  !  " 

Look  we  at  home ! — our  noble  hall, 
To  Freedom's  holy  purpose  given, 

Now  rears  its  black  and  ruined  wall, 
Beneath  the  wintry  heaven, — 

Telling  the  story  of  its  doom, — 
The    fiendish    mob, — the    prostrate 

law, — 
The    fiery    jet    through     midnight's 

gloom, 
Our  gazing  thousands  saw. 

Look  to  our  State, — the  poor  man's 

right 
Torn  from  him : — and  the  sons  of 

those 
Whose  blood   in   Freedom's    sternest 

fight 
Sprinkled  the  Jersey  snows, 

Outlawed  within  the  land  of  Penn, 
That    Slavery's   guilty   fears  might 
cease, 


MASSACHUSETTS   TO  VIRGINIA. 


7!) 


And  those  whom  God  created  men 
Toil  on  as  brutes  in  peace. 

Yet  o'er  the  blackness  of  the  storm 
A  bow  of  promise  bends  on  high, 

And    gleams    of    sunshine,    soft    and 

warm, 
Break  through  our  clouded  sky. 

East,  West,  and  North,  the  shout  is 
heard, 

Of  freemen  rising  for  the  right : 
Each  valley  hath  its  rallying  word, — 

Each  hill  its  signal  light. 

O'er  Massachusetts'  rocks  of  gray, 
The  strengthening  light  of  freedom 
shines, 

Rhode   Island's    Narragansett   Bay, — • 
And   Vermont's    snow-hung   pines ! 

From  Hudson's  frowning  palisades 
To  Alleghany's  laurelled  crest, 

O'er  lakes  and  prairies,  streams  and 

glades, 
It  shines  upon  the  West. 

Speed  on  the  light  to  those  who  dwell 
In  Slavery's  land  of  woe  and  sin, 


And   through   the   blackness   of   that 

hell, 
Let  Heaven's  own  light  break  in. 

So    shall    the    Southern    conscience 

quake 
Before  that   light  poured   full  and 

strong, 

So  shall  the  Southern  heart  awake 
To  all  the  bondman's  wrong. 

And  from  that  rich  and  sunny  land 
The  song  of  grateful  millions  rise, 

Like  that  of  Israel's  ransomed  band 
Beneath  Arabia's  skies : 

And  all  who  now  are  bound  beneath 
Our  banner's  shade,  our  eagle's 
wing, 

From  Slavery's  night  of  moral  death 
To  light  and  life  shall  spring. 

Broken    the    bondman's    chain,    and 

gone 
The  master's  guilt,   and  hate,   and 

fear. 
And  unto  both  alike  shall  dawn, 

A  New  and  Happy  Year. 
1839- 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA. 


[Written  on  reading  an  account  of  the  proceedings  of  the  citizens  of  Norfolk,  Va.,  in  refer 
ence  to  GEORGE  LATIMER,  the  alleged  fugitive  slave,  the  result  of  whose  case  in  Massa 
chusetts  will  probably  be  similar  to  that  of  the  negro  SOMERSET  in  England,  in  1772.] 

THE  blast  from  Freedom's  Northern  hills,  upon  its  Southern  way, 

Bears  greeting  to  Virginia  from  Massachusetts  Bay: — 

No  word  of  hauty  challenging,  nor  battle  bugle's  peal, 

Nor  steady  tread  of  marching  files,  nor  clang  of  horsemen's  steel. 

No  trains  of  deep-mouthed  cannon  along  our  highways  go, — 

Around  our  silent  arsenals  untrodden  lies  the  snow; 

And  to  the  land-breeze  of  our  ports,  upon  their  errands  far, 

A  thousand  sails  of  commerce  swell,  but  none  are  spread  for  war. 

We  hear  thy  threats,  Virginia !  thy  stormy  words  and  high, 
Swell  harshly  on  the  Southern  winds  which  melt  along  our  sky; 
Yet,  not  one 'brown,  hard  hand  foregoes  its  honest  labor  here, — 
No  hewer  of  our  mountain  oaks  suspends  his  axe  in  fear. 


80  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Wild  are  the  waves  which  lash  the  reefs  along  St.  George's  bank, — 
Cold  on  the  shore  of  Labrador  the  fog  lies  white  and  dank; 
Through  storm,  and  wave,  and  blinding  mist,  stout  are  the  hearts  which  man 
The  fishing-smacks  of  Marble  head,  the  sea-boats  of  Cape  Ann. 

The  cold  north  light  and  wintry  sun  glare  on  their  icy  forms, 
Bent  grimly  o'er  their  straining  lines  or  wrestling  with  the  storms; 
Free  as  the  winds  they  drive  before,  rough  as  the  waves  they  roam, 
They  laugh  to  scorn  the  slaver's  threat  against  their  rocky  home. 

What  means  the  Old  Dominion?     Hath  she  forgot  the  day 
When  o'er  her  conquered  valleys  swept  the  Briton's  steel  array? 
How  side  by  side,  with  sons  of  hers,  the  Massachusetts  men 
Encountered  Tarleton's  charge  of  fire,  and  stout  Cornwallis,  then? 

Forgets  she  how  the  Bay  State,  in  answer  to  the  call 
Of  her  old  House  of  Burgesses,  spoke  out  from  Faneuil  Hall? 
When,  echoing  back  her  Henry's  cry,  came  pulsing  on  each  breath 
Of  Northern  winds,  the  thrilling  sounds  of  "  LIBERTY  OR  DEATH  !  " 

What  asks  the  Old  Dominion?     If  now  her  sons  have  proved 
False  to  their  fathers'  memory, — false  to  the  faith  they  loved, 
If  she  can  scoff  at  Freedom,  and  its  great  charter  spurn, 
Must  we  of  Massachusetts  from  truth  and  duty  turn? 

We  hunt  your  bondmen,  flying  from  Slavery's  hateful  hell, — 
Our  voices,  at  your  bidding,  take  up  the  bloodhound's  yell, — 
We  gather,  at  your  summons,  above  our  fathers'  graves, 
From  Freedom's  holy  altar-horns  to  tear  your  wretched  slaves! 

Thank  God !  not  yet  so  vilely  can  Massachusetts  bow ; 

The  spirit  of  her  early  time 'is  with  her  even  now; 

Dream  not  because  her  Pilgrim  blood  moves  slow  and  calm  and  cool, 

She  thus  can  stoop  her  chainless  neck,  a  sister's  slave  and  tool ! 

All  that  a  sister  State  should  do,  all  that  a  free  State  may, 
Heart,  hand,  and  purse  we  proffer,  as  in  our  early  day ; 
But  that  one  dark  loathsome  burden  ye  must  stagger  with  alone, 
And  reap  the  bitter  harvest  which  ye  yourselves  have  sown! 

Hold,  while  ye  may,  your  struggling  slaves,  and  burden  God's  free  air 
With  woman's  shriek  beneath  the  lash,  and  manhood's  wild  despair; 
Cling  closer  to  the  "  cleaving  curse  "  that  writes  upon  your  plains 
The  blasting  of  Almighty  wrath  against  a  land  of  chains. 

Still  shame  your  gallant  ancestry,  the  cavaliers  of  old, 
By  watching  round  the  shambles  where  human  flesh  is  sold, — 
Gloat  o'er  the  new-born  child,  and  count  his  market  value,  when 
The  maddened  mother's  cry  of  woe  shall  pierce  the  slaver's  den! 


MASSACHUSETTS   TO   VIRGINIA.  81 

Lower  than  plummet  soundeth,  sink  the  Virginia  name; 

Plant,  if  ye  will,  your  fathers'  graves  with  rankest  weeds  of  shame ; 

Be,  if  ye  will,  the  scandal  of  God's  fair  universe, — 

We  wash  our  hands  forever  of  your  sin  and  shame  and  curse. 

A  voice  from  lips  whereon  the  coal  from  Freedom's  shrine  hath  been, 
Thrilled,  as  but  yesterday,  the  hearts  of  Berkshire's  mountain  men: 
The  echoes  of  that  solemn  voice  are  sadly  lingering  still 
In  all  our  sunny  valleys,  on  every  wind-swept  hill. 

And  when  the  prowling  man-thief  came  hunting  for  his  prey 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  Bunker's  shaft  of  gray, 
How,  through  the  free  lips  of  the  son,  the  father's  warning  spoke; 
How,  from  its  bonds  of  trade  and  sect,  the  Pilgrim  city  broke! 

A  hundred  thousand  right  arms  were  lifted  up  on  high, — 

A  hundred  thousand  voices  sent  back  their  loud  reply ; 

Through  the  thronged  towns  of  Essex  the  startling  summons  rang, 

And  up  from  bench  and  loom  and  wheel  her  young  mechanics  sprang ! 

The  voice  of  free,  broad  Middlesex, — of  thousands  as  of  one, — 
The  shaft  of  Bunker  calling  to  that  of  Lexington, — 
From  Norfolk's  ancient  villages,  from  Plymouth's  rocky  bound 
To  where  Nantucket  feels  the  arms  of  ocean  close  her  round; — 

From  rich  and  rural  Worcester,  where  through  the  calm  repose 
Of  cultured  vales  and  fringing  woods  the  gentle  Nashua  flows, 
To  where  Wachuset's  wintry  blasts  the  mountain  larches  stir, 
Swelled  up  to  Heaven  the  thrilling  cry  of  "  God  save  Latimer !  " 

And  sandy  Barnstable  rose  up,  wet  with  the  salt  sea  spray, — 

And  Bristol  sent  her  answering  shout  down  Narragansett  Bay! 

Along  the  broad  Connecticut  old  Hampden  felt  the  thrill, 

And  the  cheer  of  Hampshire's  woodmen  swept  down  from  Holyoke  Hill. 

The  voice  of  Massachusetts !     Of  her  free  sons  and  daughters, — 
Deep  calling  unto  deep  aloud, — the  sound  of  many  waters! 
Against  the  burden  of  that  voice  what  tyrant  power  shall  stand? 
No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State!     No  slave  upon  her  land! 

Look  to  it  well,  Virginians !     In  calmness  we  have  borne, 

In  answer  to  our  faith  and  trust,  your  insult  and  your  scorn; 

You  Ve  spurned  our  kindest  counsels, — you  've  hunted  for  our  lives, — 

And  shaken  round  our  hearths  and  homes  your  manacles  and  gyves! 

We  wage  no  war, — we  lift  no  arm, — we  fling  no  torch  within 
The  fire-damps  of  the  quaking  mine  beneath  your  soil  of  sin; 
We  leave  ye  with  your  bondmen,  to  wrestle,  while  ye  can, 
With  the  strong  upward  tendencies  and  godlik^  soul  of  man! 


82 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


But  for  us  and  for  our  children,  the  vow  which  we  have  given 
For  freedom  and  humanity  is  registered  in  Heaven ; 
No  slave-hunt  in  our  borders, — no  pirate  on  our  strand! 
No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State, — no  slave  upon  our  land! 


THE   RELIC 

[PENNSYLVANIA  HALL,  dedicated  to  Free 
Discussion  and  the  cause  of  human  liberty, 
was  destroyed  by  a  mob  in  1838.  The  follow 
ing  was  written  on  receiving  a  cane  wrought 
from  a  fragment  of  the  wood-work  which  the 
fire  had  spared.] 

TOKEN  of  friendship  true  and  tried, 
From    one    whose    fiery    heart    of 
youth 

With  mine  has  beaten,  side  by  side, 
For  Liberty  and  Truth; 

With  honest  pride  the  gift  I  take, 

And  prize  it  for  the  giver's  sake. 

But  not  alone  because  it  tells 
Of  generous  hand   and   heart    sin 
cere; 
Around  that  gift  of  friendship  dwells 

A  memory  doubly  dear, — 
Earth's   noblest    aim, — man's    holiest 

thought, 
With  that  memorial  frail  inwrought! 

Pure  thoughts  and  sweet,  like  flowers 

unfold, 
And   precious   memories    round    it 

cling, 
Even  as  the  Prophet's  rod  of  old 

In  beauty  blossoming : 
And  buds  of  feeling  pure  and  good 
Spring    from    its    cold    unconscious 
wood. 

Relic  of  Freedorn's  shrine ! — a  brand 
Plucked  from  its  burning ! — let  it  be 

Dear  as  a  jewel  from  the  hand 
Of  a  lost  friend  to  me ! — 

Flower  of  a  perished  garland  left, 

Of  life  and  beauty  unbereft! 

O,  if  the  young  enthusiast  bears, 
O'er  weary  waste  and  sea,  the  stone 


Which  crumbled  from    the    Forum's 

stairs, 

Or  round  the  Parthenon ; 
Or  olive-bough  from  some  wild  tree 
Hung  over  old  Thermopylae : 

If  leaflets  from  some  hero's  tomb, 
Or  mossy-wreath  torn    from    ruins 

hoary, — 
Or  faded  flowers  whose  sisters  bloom 

On  fields  renowned  in  story, — 
Or    fragment    from    the    Alhambra's 

crest, 
Or  the  gray  rock  by  Druids  blessed; 

Sad  Erin's  shamrock  greenly  growing 
Where   Freedom    led   her    stalwart 

kern, 

Or  Scotia's  "  rough  bur  thistle  "  blow 
ing 

On  Bruce's  Bannockburn, — 
Or   Runnymede's   wild   English   rose, 
Or    lichen    plucked    from    Sempach's 
snows ! — 

If  it  be  true  that  things  like  these 
To    heart    and    eye    bright   visions 

bring, 
Shall  not  far  holier  memories 

To  this  memorial  cling? 
Which   needs   no   mellowing  mist   of 

time 
To  hide  the  crimson  stains  of  crime! 

Wreck  of  a  temple,  unprofaned, — 
Of  courts  where  Peace  with  Free 
dom  trod, 
Lifting  on  high,  with  hands  unstained, 

Thanksgiving  unto  God ; 
Where    Mercy's    voice    of    love    was 

pleading 

For  human  hearts  in  bondage  bleed 
ing!— 


CHRIST  BEFORE  PILATE. 

Pilate  and  Herod,  friends! 
Chief  priests  and  rulers,  as  of  old,  combine! 


THE  BRANDED  HAND. 


83 


Where,  midst  the  sound  of  rushing 

feet 

And  curses  on  the  night-air  flung, 
That   pleading   voice   rose   calm   and 

sweet 

From  woman's  earnest  tongue; 
And  Riot  turned  his  scowling  glance, 
Awed,  from  her  tranquil  countenance  ! 

That  temple  now  in  ruin  lies! — 
The  fire-stain  on  its  shattered  wall, 

And  open  to  the  changing  skies 
Its  black  and  roofless  hall, 

It  stands  before  a  nation's  sight, 

A  gravestone  over  buried  Right! 

But  from  that  ruin,  as  of  old, 
The  fire-scorched  stones  themselves 
are  crying, 


And  from  their  ashes  white  and  cold 

Its  timbers  are  replying! 
A  voice  which  slavery  cannot  kill 
Speaks    f'-om   the    crumbling    arches 
still! 

And  even  this  relic  from  thy  shrine, 
O  holy  Freedom !  hath  to  me 

A  potent  power,  a  voice  and  sign 
To  testify  of  thee ; 

And,  grasping  it,  methinks  I  feel 

A  deeper  faith,  a  stronger  zeal. 

And  not  unlike  that  mystic  rod, 
Of  old  stretched  o'er  the  Egyptian 
wave, 

Which  opened,  in  the  strength  of  God, 
A  pathway  for  the  slave, 

It  yet  may  point  the  bondman's  way, 

And  turn  the  spoiler  from  his  prey. 


THE  BRANDED  HAND. 
1846. 

WELCOME  home  again,  brave  seaman!  with  thy  thoughtful  brow  and  gray, 
And  the  old  heroic  spirit  of  our  earlier,  better  day, — 
With  that  front  of  calm  endurance,  on  whose  steady  nerve  in  vain 
Pressed  the  iron  of  the  prison,  smote  the  fiery  shafts  of  pain ! 

Is  the  tyrant's  brand  upon  thee?     Did  the  brutal  cravens  aim 
To  make  God's  truth  thy  falsehood,  his  holiest  work  thy  shame? 
When,  all  blood-quenched,  from  the  torture  the  iron  was  withdrawn, 
How  laughed  their  evil  angel  the  baffled  fools  to  scorn ! 

They  change  to  wrong  the  duty  which  God  hath  written  out 

On  the  great  heart  of  humanity,  too  legible  for  doubt ! 

They,  the  loathsome  moral  lepers,  blotched  from  footsole  up  to  crown, 

Give  to  shame  what  God  hath  given  unto  honor  and  renown ! 

Why,  that  brand  is  highest  honor ! — than  its  traces  never  yet 
Upon  old  armorial  hatchments  was  a  prouder  blazon  set ; 
And  thy  unborn  generations,  as  they  tread  our  rocky  strand, 
Shall  tell  with  pride  the  story  of  their  father's  BRANDED  HAND! 

As  the  Templar  home  was  welcome,  bearing  back  from  Syrian  wars 

The  scars  of  Arab  lances  and  of  Paynim  scymitars, 

The  pallor  of  the  prison,  and  the  shackle's  crimson  span, 

So  we  meet  thee.  so  we  greet  the,  truest  friend  of  God  and  man! 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


He  suffered  for  the  ransom  of  the  dear  Redeemer's  grave, 
Thou  for  his  living  presence  in  the  bound  and  bleeding  slave; 
He  for  a  soil  no  longer  by  the  feet  of  angels  trod, 
Thou  for  the  true  Shechinah,  the  present  home  of  God! 

For,  while  the  jurist,  sitting  with  the  slave- whip  o'er  him  swung, 

From  the  tortured  truths  of  freedom  the  lie  of  slavery  wrung, 

And  the  solemn  priest  to  Moloch,  on  each  God-deserted  shrine, 

Broke  the  bondman's  heart  for  bread,  poured  the  bondman's  blood  for  wine, — 

While  the  multitude  in  blindness  to  a  far-off  Saviour  knelt, 
And  spurned,  the  while,  the  temple  where  a  present  Saviour  dwelt; 
Thou  beheld'st  him  in  the  task-field,  in  the  prison  shadows  dim, 
And  thy  mercy  to  the  bondman,  it  was  mercy  unto  him ! 

In  thy  lone  and  long  night-watches,  sky  above  and  wave  below, 

Thou  didst  learn  a  higher  wisdom  than  the  babbling  schoolmen  know; 

God's  stars  and  silence  taught  thee,  as  his  angels  only  can, 

That  the  one  sole  sacred  thing  beneath  the  cope  of  heaven  is  Man! 

That  he  who  treads  profanely  on  the  scrolls  of  law  and  creed, 
In  the  depth  of  God's  great  goodness  may  find  mercy  in  his  need; 
But  woe  to  him  who  crushes  the  SOUL  with  chain  and  rod, 
And  herds  with  lower  natures  the  awful  form  of  God! 

Then  lift  that  manly  right-hand,  bold  ploughman  of  the  wave ! 
Its  branded  palm  shall  prophesy,  "  SALVATION  TO  THE  SLAVE  !  " 
Hold  up  its  fire-wrought  language,  that  whoso  reads  may  feel 
His  heart  swell  strong  within  him,  his  sinews  change  to  steel. 

Hold  it  up  before  our  sunshine,  up  against  our  Northern  air, — 
Ho !  men  of  Massachusetts,  for  the  love  of  God,  look  there ! 
Take  it  henceforth  for  your  standard,  like  the  Bruce's  heart  of  yore, 
In  the  dark  strife  closing  round  ye,  let  that  hand  be  seen  before! 

And  the  tyrants  of  the  slave-land  shall  tremble  at  that  sign, 
When  it  points  its  finger  Southward  along  the  Puritan  line: 
Woe  to  the  State-gorged  leeches  and  the  Church's  locust  band, 
When  they  look  from  slavery's  ramparts  on  the  coming  of  that  hand ! 


TEXAS. 

VOICE    OF    NEW    ENGLAND. 

UP  the  hillside,  down  the  glen, 
Rouse  the  sleeping  citizen; 
Summon  out  the  might  of  men! 


Like  a  lion  growling  low, — 
Like  a  night-storm  rising  slow, — 
Like  the  tread  of  unseen  foe, — 

It  is  coming, — it  is  nigh ! 

Stand  your  homes  and  altars  by; 

On  your  own  free  thresholds  die. 


TEXAS. 


85 


Clang  the  bells  in  all  your  spires ; 
On  the  gray  hills  of  your  sires 
Fling  to  heaven  your  signal-fires. 

From  Wachuset,  lone  and  bleak, 

Unto  Berkshire's  tallest  peak, 

Let  the  flame-tongued  heralds  speak. 

O,  for  God  and  duty  stand, 
Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand, 
Round  the  old  graves  of  the  land. 

Whoso  shrinks  or  falters  now, 
Whoso  to  the  yoke  would  bow, 
Brand  the  craven  on  his  brow! 

Freedom's  soil  hath  only  place 
For  a  free  and  fearless  race, — 
None  for  traitors  false  and  base. 

Perish  party, — perish  clan ; 
Strike  together  while  ye  can, 
Like  the  arm  of  one  strong  man. 

Like  that  angel's  voice  sublime, 
Heard  above  a  world  of  crime. 
Crying  of  the  end  of  time, — 


With  one  heart  and  with  one  mouth, 
Let  the  North  unto  the  South 
Speak  the  word  befitting  both: 


"What  though  Issachar  be  strong! 
Ye  may  load  his  back  with  wrong 
Overmuch  and  over  long: 

"  Patience  with  her  cup  o'errun, 
With  her  weary  thread  outspun, 
Murmurs  that  her  work  is  done. 

"  Make   our   Union-bond    a    chain, 
Weak  as  tow  in  Freedom's  strain 
Link  by  link  shall  snap  in  twain. 

"  Vainly  shall  your  sand-wrought  rope 
Bind  the  starry  cluster  up, 
Shattered  over  heaven's  blue  cope! 


"Give  us  bright  though  broken  rays, 
Rather  than  eternal  haze, 
Clouding  o'er  the  full-orbed  blaze. 

"Take  your  land  of  sun  and  bloom; 

Only  leave  to  Freedom  room 

For  her  plough,  and  forge,  and  loom ; 

"Take  your  slavery-blackened  vales; 
Leave  us  but  our  own  free  gales, 
Blowing  on  our  thousand  sails. 

"-Boldly,  or  with  treacherous  art, 
Strike  the  blood-wrought  chain  apart ; 
Break  the  Union's  mighty  heart; 

"  Work  the  ruin,  if  ye  will ; 
Pluck  upon  your  heads  an  ill 
Which  shall  grow  and  deepen  still. 

"  With   your  bondman's    right    arm 

bare, 

With  his  heart  of  black  despair, 
Stand  alone,  if  stand  ye  dare! 

"  Onward  with  your  fell  design ; 
Dig  the  gulf  and  draw  the  line: 
Fire  beneath  your  feet  the  mine: 

"  Deeply,  when  the  wide  abyss 
Yawns  between  your  land  and  this, 
Shall  ye  feel  your  helplessness. 

"  By  the  hearth,  and  in  the  bed, 
Shaken  by  a  look  or  tread, 
Ye  shall  own  a  guilty  dread. 

"And  the  curse  of  unpaid  toil, 
Downward    through    your     generous 

soil 
Like  a  fire  shall  burn  and  spoil. 

"  Our  bleak  hills  shall  bud  and  blow, 
Vines  our  rocks  shall  overgrow, 
Plenty  in  our  valleys  flow; — 

"  And  when  vengeance  clouds  your 

skies, 

Hither  shall  ye  turn  your  eyes, 
As  the  lost  on  Paradise ! 


86 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


"  We  but  ask  our  rocky  strand, 
Freedom's  true  and  brother  band, 
Freedom's  strong  and  honest  hand, 

"  Valleys  by  the  slave  untrod, 
And  the   Pilgrim's  mountain  sod, 
Blessed  of  our  fathers'  God !  " 


TO  FANEUIL  HALL. 
1844. 

MEN  ! — if  manhood  still  ye  claim, 

If  the  Northern  pulse  can  thrill, 
Roused  by  wrong  or  stung  by  shame, 

Freely,  strongly  still, — 
Let  the  sounds  of  traffic  die : 

Shut     the      mill-gate, — leave      the 

stall,— 
Fling  the  axe  and  hammer  by, — 

Throng  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Wrongs       which       freemen       never 
brooked, — 

Dangers  grim  and  fierce  as  they, 
Which,  like  couching  lions,  looked 

On  your  fathers'  way, — 
These  your  instant  zeal  demand, 

Shaking  with  their  earthquake-call 
Every  rood  of  Pilgrim  land, 

Ho,  to  Faneuil  Hall! 

From  your  capes  and  sandy  bars,— 

From  your  mountain-ridges  cold, 
Through  whose  pines  the  westering 
stars 

Stoop  their  crowns  of  gold, — 
Come,  and  with  your  footsteps  wake 

Echoes  from  that  holy  wall; 
Once  again,  for  Freedom's  sake, 

Rock  your  fathers'  hall! 

Up,  and  tread  beneath  your  feet 
Every  cord  by  party  spun; 

Let  your  hearts  together  beat 
As  the  heart  of  one. 

Banks  and  tariffs,  stocks  and  trade, 
Let  them  rise  or  let  them  fall : 


Freedom   asks    your    common   aid, — 
Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Up,  and  let  each  voice  that  speaks 

Ring     from     thence     to     Southern 

plains, 
Sharply  as  the  blow  which  breaks 

Prison-bolts   and   chains ! 
Speak  as  well  becomes  the  free : 

Dreaded  more  than  steel  or  ball, 
Shall  your  calmest  utterance  be, 

Heard  from  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Have  they  wronged  us?    Let  us  then 
Render     back     nor      threats      nor 

prayers ; 
Have    they    chained     our     free-born 

men? 

LET  US  UNCHAIN  THEIRS  ! 

Up,  your  banner  leads  the  van, 
Blazoned,  "  Liberty  for  all !  " 

Finish  what  your  sires  began ! 
Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall! 


TO  MASSACHUSETTS. 
1844- 

WHAT  though  around  thee  blazes 

No  fiery  rallying  sign? 
From  all  thy  own  high  places, 

Give  heaven  the  light  of  thine! 
What  though  unthrilled,  unmoving, 

The  statesman  stands  apart, 
And   comes  no  warm  approving 

From  Mammon's  crowded  mart? 

Still,  let  the  land  be  shaken 

By  a  summons  of  thine  own ! 
By  all  save  truth  forsaken, 

Why,  stand  with  that  alone ! 
Shrink  not  from  strife  unequal ! 

With  the  best  is  always  hope; 
And  ever  in  the  sequel 

God  holds  the  right  side  up! 

But  when,  with  thine  uniting, 
Come  voices  long  and  loud, 

And  far-off  hills  are  writing 
Thy  fire- words  on  the  cloud; 


From  all  her  wild,  green  mountains — 

From  valleys  where  her  slumbering  fathers  lie — 
From  her  blue  rivers  and  her  welling  fonntains, 
And  clear,  cold  sky. 


THE  PINE-TREE. 


87 


When  from  Penobscot's  fountains 
A  deep  response  is  heard, 

And  across  the  Western  mountains 
Rolls  back  thy  rallying  word ; 

Shall  thy  line  of  battle  falter, 

With  its  allies  just  in  view? 
O,  by  hearth  and  holy  altar, 

My  fatherland,  be  true ! 
Fling  abroad  thy  scrolls  of  Freedom ! 

Speed  them  onward  far  and  fast ! 
Over  hill  and  valley  speed  them, 

Like  the  sibyl's  on  the  blast! 

Lo !  the  Empire  State  is  shaking 
The  shackles  from  her  hand; 


With  the  rugged  North  is  waking 

The  level  sunset  land! 
On  they  come, — the  free  battalions ! 

East    and    West    and    North    they 

come, 
And  the  heart-beat  of  the  millions 

Is  the  beat  of  Freedom's  drum. 


"  To  the  tyrant's  plot  no  favor ! 

No   heed   to   place-fed  knaves! 
Bar  and  bolt  the  door  forever 

Against  the  land  of  slaves !  " 
Hear  it,  mother  Earth,  and  hear  it, 

The  Heavens  above  us  spread! 
The  land  is  roused, — its  spirit 

Was  sleeping,  but  not  dead! 


THE  PINE-TREE. 
1846. 

LIFT  again  the  stately  emblem  on  the  Bay  State's  rusted  shield, 
Give  to  Northern  winds  the  Pine-Tree  on  our  banner's  tattered  field. 
Sons  of  men  who  sat  in  council  with  their  Bibles  round  the  board, 
Answering  England's  royal  missive  with  a  firm,  "  THUS  SAITH  THE  LORD  !  " 
Rise  again  for  home  and  freedom ! — set  the  battle  in  array ! — 
What  the  fathers  did  of  old  time  we  their  sons  must  do  to-day. 

Tell  us  not  of  banks  and  tariffs, — cease  your  paltry  pedler  cries, — 
Shall  the  good  State  sink  her  honor  that  your  gambling  stocks  may  rise? 
Would  ye  barter  man  for  cotton  ? — That  your  gains  may  sum  up  higher, 
Must  we  kiss  the  feet  of  Moloch,  pass  our  children  through  the  fire? 
Is  the  dollar  only  real? — God  and  truth  and  right  a  dream? 
Weighed  against  your  lying  ledgers  must  our  manhood  kick  the  beam? 

O  my  God ! — for  that  free  spirit,  which  of  old  in  Boston  town 
Smote  the  Province  House  with  terror,  struck  the  crest  of  Andros  down!-r- 
For  another  strong-voiced  Adams  in  the  city's  streets  to  cry, 
"  Up  for  God  and  Massachusetts ! — Set  your  feet  on  Mammon's  lie ! 
Perish  banks  and  perish  traffic, — spin  your  cotton's  latest  pound, — 
But  in  Heaven's  name  keep  your  honor, — keep  the  heart  o'   the  Bay  State 
sound !  " 

Where  's  the  MAN  for  Massachusetts  ?— Where 's  the  voice  to  speak  her  free?— 
Where's  the  hand  to  light  up  bonfires  from  her  mountains  to  the  sea? 
Beats  her  Pilgrim  pulse  no  longer? — Sits  she  dumb  in  her  despair? — 
Has  she  none  to  break  the  silence?— Has  she  none  to  do  and  dare? 
O  my  God!  for  one  right  worthy  to  lift  up  her  rusted  shield, 
And  to  plant  again  the  Pine-Tree  in  her  banner's  tattered  field ! 


88 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


LINES, 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  VISIT  TO  THE  CITY  OF 
WASHINGTON,  IN  THE  I2TH  MONTH 
OF  1845. 

WITH  a  cold  and  wintry  noon-light, 

On  its  roofs  and  steeples  shed, 
Shadows  weaving  with  the  sunlight 

From  the  gray  sky  overhead, 
Broadly,  vaguely,  all  around  me,  lies 
the  half-built  town  outspread. 

Through  this  broad  street,  restless 

ever, 

Ebbs  and  flows  a  human  tide, 
Wave  on  wave  a  living  river ; 

Wealth  and  fashion  side  by  side ; 
Toiler,  idler,  slave  and  master,  in  the 
same  quick  current  glide. 

Underneath  yon  dome,  whose  cop 
ing 

Springs  above  them,  vast  and  tall, 
Grave  men  in  the  dust  are  groping 
For  the  largess,  base  and  small, 
Which  the  hand  of  Power  is  scatter 
ing,  crumbs  which  from  its  table 
fall. 

Base  of  heart!     They  vilely  barter 

Honor's  wealth  for  party's  place : 

Step  by  step  on  Freedom's  charter 

Leaving  footprints  of  disgrace; 
For  to-day's    poor    pittance    turning 
from  the  great   hope  of  their 
race. 

Yet,  where  festal  lamps  are  throw 
ing 

Glory  round  the  dancer's  hair, 
Gold-tressed,  like  an  angel's,  flowing 

Backward  on  the  sunset  air ; 
And   the   low   quick   pulse   of   music 
beats   its   measures   sweet   and 
rare: 


There      to-night      shall      woman's 

glances, 

Star-like,  welcome  give  to  them, 
Fawning  fools  with  shy  advances 


Seek    to    touch    their    garments' 

hem, 

With  the  tongue  of  flattery  glozing 
deeds  which  God  and  Truth 
condemn. 

From  this  glittering  lie  my  vision 

Takes  a  broader,  sadder  range, 
Full  before  me  have  arisen 

Other  pictures  dark  and  strange ; 
From  the  parlor  to  the  prison  must 
the  scene  and  witness  change. 

Hark !  the  heavy  gate  is  swinging 
On  its  hinges,  harsh  and  slow ; 
One  pale  prison  lamp  is  flinging 

On  a  fearful  group  below 
Such  a  light  as  leaves  to  terror  what 
soe'er  it  does  not  show. 

Pitying  God! — Is  that  a  WOMAN 
On    whose    wrist     the     shackles 

clash? 

Is  that  shriek  she  utters  human, 
Underneath  the  stinging  lash  ? 
Are  they  MEN  whose  eyes  of  madness 
from  that  sad  procession  flash  ? 

Still  the  dance  goes  gayly  onward! 

What  is  it  to  Wealth  and  Pride 
That  without  the  stars  are  looking 
On  a  scene  which  earth   should 

hide? 

That  the  SLAVE-SHIP  lies  in  waiting, 
rocking  on  Potomac's  tide ! 

Vainly  to  that  mean  Ambition 

Which,  upon  a  rival's  fall, 
Winds  above  its  old  condition, 
With  a  reptile's  slimy  crawl, 
Shall  the  pleading  voice   of   sorrow, 
shall  the  slave  in  anguish  call. 

Vainly  to  the  child  of  Fashion, 

Giving  to  ideal  woe 
Graceful  luxury  of  compassion, 

Shall  the  stricken  mourner  go ; 
Hateful   seems    the    earnest   sorrow, 
beautiful  the  hollow  show1 


LINES. 


80 


Nay,  my  words  are  all  too  sweep 
ing: 

In  this  crowded  human  mart, 
Feeling  is  not  dead,  but  sleeping ; 
Man's   strong  will  and  woman's 

heart, 

3n  the  coming  strife  for  Freedom,  yet 
shall  bear  their  generous  part. 

And  from  yonder  sunny  valleys, 
Southward  in  the  distance  lost, 
Freedom  yet  shall  summon  allies 
Worthier    than    the    North    can 

boast, 

With  the  Evil  by  their  hearth-stones 
grappling  at  severer  cost. 

Now,  the  soul  alone  is  willing: 
Faint  the   heart    and    weak    the 

knee; 
And  as  yet  no  lip  is  thrilling 

With     the    mighty    words,    "  BE 

FREE  !  " 

Tarrieth  long  the  land's  Good  Angel, 
but  his  advent  is  to  be! 

Meanwhile,  turning  from  the  revel 

To  the  prison-cell  my  sight, 
For  intenser  hate  of  evil, 

For  a  keener  sense  of  right, 
Shaking   off   thy  dust,  I  thank  thee, 
City  of  the  Slaves,  to-night ! 

"  To  thy  duty  now  and  ever ! 

Dream  no  more  of  rest  or  stay; 
Give  to  Freedom's  great  endeavor 

All  thou  art  and  hast  to-day  "  : 
Thus,  above  the  city's  murmur,  saith 
a  Voice,  or  seems  to  say. 

Ye  with  heart  and  vision  gifted 
To  discern  and  love  the  right, 
Whose  worn  faces  have  been  lifted 

To  the  slowly-growing  light, 
Where  from  Freedom's  sunrise  drifted 
slowly     back     the     murk     of 
night ! — 

Ye  who  through  long  years  of  trial 
Still  have  held  your  purpose  fast, 


While  a  lengthening  shade  the  di'il 
From  the  westering  sunshine  cast, 
And    of    hope    each    hour's     denial 
seemed  an  echo  of  the  last ! — 

O  my  brothers!     O  my  sisters! 

Would  to  God  that  ye  were  near, 
Gazing  with  me  down  the  vistas 

Of  a  sorrow  strange  and  drear ; 
Would  to  God  that  ye  were  listeners 
to  the  Voice  I  seem  to  hear ! 


With  the   storm  above  us  driving, 
With  the  false  earth  mined  be 
low, — 
Who  shall  marvel  if  thus  striving 

We  have  counted  friend  as  foe ; 
Unto  one  another  giving  in  the  dark 
ness  blow  for  blow. 


Well  it  may  be  that  our  natures 
Have  grown  sterner    and    more 

hard, 

And  the  freshness  of  their  features 
Somewhat     harsh      and      battle- 
scarred, 

And  their  harmonies  of  feeling  over 
tasked  and  rudely  jarred. 

Be  it  so.     It  should  not  swerve  us 
From  a  purpose  true  and  brave ; 
Dearer  Freedom's  rugged  service 
Than  the  pastime  of  the  slave ; 
Better  is  the  storm  above  it  than  the 
quiet  of  the  grave. 

Let  us  then,  uniting,  bury 

All  our  idle  feuds  in  dust, 
And  to  future  conflicts  carry 

Mutual  faith  and  common  trust; 
Always  he  who  most  fprgiveth  in  his 
brother  is  most  just. 

From  the  eternal  shadow  rounding 

All  our  sun  and  starlight  here, 
Voices  of  our  lost  ones  sounding 

Bid  us  be  of  heart  and  cheer, 

Through  the  silence,  down  the  spaces, 

falling  on  the  inward  ear. 


90 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


Know  we  not  our  dead  are  looking 

Downward  with  a  sad  surprise, 
1     All  our  strife  of  words  rebuking 

With  their  mild  and  loving  eyes  ? 
Shall    we    grieve    the    holy    angels? 
Shall   we  cloud    their    blessed 
skies  ? 

Let  us  draw  their  mantles  o'er  us 
Which  have  fallen  in  our  way; 
Let  us  do  the  work  before  us, 

'  Cheerly,  bravely,  while  we  may, 
Ere  the  long  night-silence  cometh,  and 
with  us  it  is  not  day! 


.     LINES, 

FROM    A    LETTER    TO    A    YOUNG    CLERICAL 
FRIEND. 

A     STRENGTH     Thy     service     cannot 

tire,— 
A    faith    which    doubt    can    never 

dim, — 

A  heart  of  love,  a  lip  of  fire,— 
O  Freedom's  God !  be  thou  to  him ! 

Speak  through  him  words  of  power 

and  fear, 
As   through   thy  prophet   bards   of 

old, 
And  let  a  scornful  people  hear 

Once      more     thy      Sinai-thunders 
rolled. 

For  lying  lips  thy  blessing  seek, 
And  hands  of  blood  are  raised  to 

Thee, 
And    on    thy    children,    crushed    and 

weak, 

The  oppressor  plants  his   kneeling 
knee. . 

Let  then,  O  God !  thy  servant  dare 
Thy  truth  in  all  its  power  to  tell, 

Unmask  the  priestly  thieves,  and  tear 
The  Bible  from  the  grasp  of  hell! 


From  hollow  rite  and  narrow  span 
Of  law  and  sect  by  Thee  released, 

O,  teach  him  that  the  Christian  man 
Is  holier  than  the  Jewish  priest. 

Chase   back   the   shadows,   gray  and 
old, 

Of  the  dead  ages,  from  his  way, 
And.  let  his  hopeful  eyes  behold 

The  dawn  of  thy  millennial  day; — 

That    day    when    fettered    limb    and 

mind 
Shall  know  the  truth  which  maketh 

free, 

And  he  alone  who  loves  his  kind 
Shall,   childlike,   claim  the  love  of 
Thee! 


YORKTOWN. 

FROM  Yorktown's  ruins,  ranked  and 

still, 
Two  lines   stretch   far  o'er  vale  and 

hill: 

Who  curbs  his  steed  at  head  of  one? 
Hark  !  the  low  murmur  :  Washington ! 
Who  bends  his  keen,  approving 

glance 
Where    down   the   gorgeous    line   of 

France 
Shine   knightly   star    and    plume    of 

snow  ? 
Thou  too  art  victor,  Rochambeau ! 

The    earth    which    bears    this    calm 

array- 
Shook  with  the  war-charge  yesterday, 
Ploughed    deep    with    hurrying    hoof 

and  wheel, 
Shot-sown    and    bladed     thick     with 

steel ; 

October's  clear  and  noonday  sun 
Paled    in    the   breath-smoke    of     the 

gun, 
And    down   night's   double   blackness 

fell, 
Like    a    dropped    star,    the   blazing 

shell, 


YORKTOWN. 


91 


Now  all  is  hushed :  the  gleaming 
lines 

Stand  moveless  as  the  neighboring 
pines ; 

While  through  them,  sullen,  grim,  and 
slow, 

The  conquered  hosts  of  England 
go: 

O'Hara's  brow  belies  his  dress, 

Gay  Tarleton's  troop  rides  banner- 
less : 

Shout,  from  thy  fired  and  wasted 
homes, 

Thy  scourge,  Virginia,  captive  comes ! 

Nor  thou  alone:  with  one  glad  voice 
Let  all  thy  sister  States  rejoice; 
Let  Freedom,  in  whatever  clime 
She    waits    with    sleepless    eye    her 

time, 
Shouting    from    cave    and    mountain 

wood 

Make  glad  her  desert  solitude, 
While  they  who  hunt  her  quail  with 

fear; 
The  New  World's  chain  lies  broken 

here! 


But   who   are   they,   who,   cowering, 

wait 

Within  the  shattered  fortress  gate? 
Dark  tillers  of  Virginia's  soil, 
Classed    with    the    battle's    common 

spoil, 
With  household  stuffs,  and  fowl,  and 

swine, 

With  Indian  weed  and  planters'  wine, 
With     stolen    beeves,    and     foraged 

corn, — 
Are  they  not  men,  Virginian  born? 


O,  veil  your  faces,  young  and  brave! 
Sleep,  Scammel,  in  thy  soldier  grave ! 
Sons  of  the  Northland,  ye  who  set 
Stout  hearts  against  the  bayonet, 
And  pressed  with  steady  footfall  near 
The  moated  battery's  blazing  tier, 
Turn  your   scarred    faces    from   the 

sight, 
Let  shame  do  homage  to  the  right! 


Lo !    threescore  years  have    passed ; 

and  where 

The  Gallic  timbrel  stirred  the  air, 
With   Northern  drum-roll,    and    the 

clear, 

Wild  horn-blow  of  the  mountaineer, 
While  Britain  grounded  on  that  plain 
The  arms  she  might  not  lift  again, 
As  abject  as  in  that  old  day 
The  slave  still  toils  his  life  away. 

O,  fields  still  green  and  fresh  in  story, 
Old   days   of    pride,   old    names    of 

glory, 

Old  marvels  of  the  tongue  and  pen, 
Old  thoughts  which  stirred  the  hearts 

of  men, 

Ye  spared  the  wrong;  and  over  all 
Behold  the  avenging  shadow  fall ! 
Your  world-wide  honor  stained  with 

shame, — 
Your  freedom's  self  a  hollow  name ! 

Where's   now   the   flag   of   that   old 

war? 
Where  flows  its  stripe?    Where  burns 

its  star? 

Bear  witness,  Palo  Alto's  day, 
Dark  Vale  of  Palms,  red  Monterey, 
Where  Mexic  Freedom,   young    and 

weak, 

Fleshes  the  Northern  eagle's  beak: 
Symbol  of  terror  and  despair, 
Of  chains    and   slaves,    go    seek    it 

there ! 

Laugh,  Prussia,  midst  thy  iron  ranks ! 

Laugh,  Russia,  from  thy  Neva's 
banks ! 

Brave  sport  to  see  the  fledgling  born 

Of  Freedom  by  its  parent  torn ! 

Safe  now  is  Speilberg's  dungeon 
cell, 

Safe  drear  Siberia's  frozen  hell : 

With  Slavery's  flag  o'er  both  un 
rolled, 

What  of  the  New  World  fears  the 
Old? 


92 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN    IN    THE    BOOK    OF    A    FRIEND. 

ON  page  of  thine  I  cannot  trace 
The     cold     and     heartless     common 
place, — 
A  statue's  fixed  and  marble  grace. 

For  ever  as  these  lines  I  penned, 
Still   with   the   thought   of   thee    will 

blend 
That    of    some    loved    and    common 

friend, — 

Who  in  life's  desert  track  has  made 
His     pilgrim     tent     with     mine,    or 

strayed 
Beneath      the      same       remembered 

shade. 

And  hence  my  pen  unfettered  moves 
In    freedom     which    the    heart     ap 
proves, — 

The     negligence     which     friendship 
loves. 

And  wilt  thou  prize  my  poor  gift  less 
For  simple  air  and  rustic  dress, 
And  sign  of  haste  and  carelessness  ? — 

O,  more  than  specious  counterfeit 

Of  sentiment  or  studied  wit, 

A  heart  like  thine  should  value  it. 

Yet  half  I  fear  my  gift  will  be 
Unto  thy  book,  if  not  to  thee, 
Of  more  than  doubtful  courtesy. 

A    banished    name     from     fashion's 

sphere, 

A  lay  unheard  of  Beauty's  ear, 
Forbid,     disowned, — what      do     they 

here?— 

Upon  my  ear  not  all  in  vain 

Came     the    sad     captive's     clanking 

chain, — 
The  groaning  from  his  bed  of  pain. 


And  sadder  still,  I  saw  the  woe 
Which  only  wounded  spirits  know 
When    Pride's    strong   footsteps   o'er 
them  go. 

Spurned  not  alone  in  walks  abroad, 
But  from  the  "  temples  of  the  Lord  " 
Thrust   out   apart,     like    things     ab 
horred. 

Deep  as  I  felt,  and  stern  and  strong, 
In  words  which  Prudence  smothered 

long, 
My  soul  spoke  out  against  the  wrong ; 

Not  mine  alone  the  task  to  speak 
Of  comfort  to  the  poor  and  weak, 
And  dry  the  tear  on  Sorrow's  cheek; 

But,  mingled  in  the  conflict  warm, 
To  pour  the  fiery  breath  of  storm 
Through   the   harsh   trumpet   of   Re 
form; 

To  brave  Opinion's  settled  frown, 
From  erjnined  robe  and  saintly  gown, 
While    wrestling    reverenced     Error 
down. 

Founts  gushed  beside  my  pilgrim  way, 
Cool  shadows  on  the  greensward  lay, 
Flowers     swung    upon    the    bending 
spray. 

And,  broad  and  bright,  on  either  hand, 
Stretched  the  green  slopes  of  Fairy 
land, 
With  Hope's  eternal  sunbow  spanned ; 

Whence  voices  called  me  like  the  flow, 
Which  on  the  listener's  ear  will  grow, 
Of  forest  streamlets  soft  and  low. 

And  gentle  eyes,  which  still  retain 
Their  picture  on  the  heart  and  brain, 
Smiled,  beckoning  from  that  path  of 
pain. 

In  vain ! — nor  dream,  nor   rest,   nor 

pause 

Remain  for  him  who  round  him  draws 
The  battered  mail  of  Freedom's  cause. 


Traveler!  on  thy  journey  toiling 

By  the  swift  Powwow, 
With  the  summer  sunshine  falling 

On  thy  heated  brow. 


LINES. 


93 


From    youthful    hopes, — from     each 

green  spot 
Of     young     Romance,     and      gentle 

Thought, 
Where  storm  and  tumult  enter  not, — 

From  each  fair  altar,  where  belong 
The  offerings  Love  requires  of  Song 
In      homage      to      her      bright-eyed 
throng, — 

With   soul   and   strength,   with   heart 

and  hand, 
I    turned    to     Freedom's     struggling 

band, — 
To  the  sad  Helots  of  our  land. 

What  marvel  then  that  Fame  should 
turn 

Her  notes  of  praise  to  those  of 
scorn, — 

Her  gifts  reclaimed, — her  smiles  with 
drawn  ? 

What  matters  it ! — a  few  years  more, 
Life's  surge  so  restless  heretofore 
Shall  break  upon  the  unknown  shore ! 

In  that  far  land  shall  disappear 
The  shadows  which  we  follow  here, — 
The  mist-wreaths  of  our  atmosphere ! 

Before  no  work  of  mortal  hand, 
Of  human  will  or  strength  expand 
The  pearl  gates  of  the  Better  Land; 

Alone  in  that  great  love  which  gave 
Life  to  the  sleeper  of  the  grave, 
Resteth  the  power  to  "seek  and  save." 

Yet,  if  the  spirit  gazing  through 
The  vista  of  the  past  can  view 
One    deed    to     Heaven     and     virtue 
true, — 

If    through    the    wreck     of    wasted 

powers, 
Of  garlands  wreathed  from  Folly's 

bowers, 
Of  idle  aims  and  misspent  hours, — 

The  eye  can  note  one  sacred  spot 
By  Pride  and  Self  profaned  not, — 


A     green    place    in    the     waste,,  of 
thought, — 

Where  deed  or  word  hath  rendered 

less 

"  The  sum  of  human  wretchedness," 
And  Gratitude  looks  forth  to  bless, — 

The  simple  burst  of  tenderest  feeling 
From  sad  hearts  won  by  evil-dealing, 
For  blessing  on    the   hand  of   heal 
ing, — 

Better  than  Glory's  pomp  will  be 
That  green  and  blessed  .spot  to  me, — 
A  palm-shade  in  Eternity! — 

Something  of  Time  which  may  invite 
The  purified  and  spiritual  sight 
To   rest  on  with  a  calm  delight. 

And  when  the  summer  winds   shall 

sweep 
With  their  light  wings  my  place  of 

sleep, 
And  mosses  round  my  headstone 

creep,— 

If  still,  as  Freedom's  rallying  sign, 
Upon  the  young  heart's  altars  shine 
The   very     fires    they    caught    from 
mine,— 

If  words  my  lips  once  uttered  still, 
In  the  calm  faith  and  steadfast  will 
Of  other  hearts,  their  work  fulfil, — 

Perchance   with    joy  the    soul    may 

learn 

These  tokens,  and  its  eye  discern 
The     fires     which     on     those    altars 

burn, — 

A  marvellous  joy  that  even  then, 

The  spirit  hath  its  life  again, 

In  the  strong  hearts  of  mortal  men. 

Take,  lady,  then,  the  gift  I  bring, 
No  gay  and  graceful  offering, — 
No     flower-smile     of     the     laughing 
spring. 

Midst  the  green  buds  of  Youth's  fresh 
May, 


94 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


With  Fancy's  leaf-enwoven  bay, 
My  sad  and  sombre  gift  I  lay. 

And  if  it  deepens  in  thy  mind 

A  sense  of  suffering  human-kind, — 

The  outcast  and  the  spirit-blind : 

Oppressed  and  spoiled  on  every  side 
By  Prejudice,  and  Scorn,  and  Pride 
Life's  common  courtesies  denied; 

Sad    mothers    mourning    o'er    their 

trust, 

Children  by  want  and  misery  nursed, 
Tasting  life's  bitter  cup  at  first; 

If  to  their  strong  appeals  which  come 
From  fireless  hearth,  and  crowded 

room, 
And  the  close  alley's  noisome  gloom, — 

Though  dark  the  hands  upraised  to 
thee 

In  mute  beseeching  agony, 

Thou  lend'st  thy  woman's  sympa 
thy,— 

Not  vainly  on  thv  gentle  shrine. 
Where  Love,  and  Mirth,  and  Friend 
ship  twine 
Their  varied  gifts,  I  offer  mine. 


P;EAN. 
1848. 

Now,  joy  and  thanks  forevermore ! 

The     dreary    night    has     wellnigh 

passed, 
The  slumbers  of  the  North  are  o'er, — 

The  Giant  stands  erect  at  last! 

More   than   we   hoped   in   that   dark 

time, 
When,  faint  with  watching,  few  and 

worn, 

We  saw  no  welcome  day-star  climb 
The  cold  gray  pathway  of  the  morn ! 

O  weary  hours !  O  night  of  years ! 
What  storms  our  darkling  pathway 
swept, 


Where,  beating  back   our  thronging 

fears, 
By  Faith  alone  our  march  we  kept. 

How  jeered  the  scoffing  crowd  behind, 
How    mocked    before    the    tyrant 
train, 

As,  one  by  one,  the  true  and  kind 
Fell  fainting  in  our  path  of  pain ! 

They  died,— their  brave  hearts  break 
ing  slow, — 

But,  self-forgetful  to  the  last, 
In  words  of  cheer  and  bugle  blow 
Their    breath    upon    the    darkness 
passed. 

A  might  host,  on  either  hand, 

Stood  waiting  for  the  dawn  of  day 

To  crush  like  reeds  our  feeble  band; 
The   morn   has    come, — and   where 
are  they? 

Troop  after  troop  their  line  forsakes ; 
With    peace-white   banners   waving 

free, 
And    from   our   own   the   glad  shout 

breaks 
Of  Freedom  and  Fraternity! 

Like  mist  before  the  growing  light, 
The  hostile  cohorts  melt  away; 

Our  frowning  foemen  of  the  night 
Are  brothers  at  the  dawn  of  day! 

As  unto  these  repentant  ones 
We  open  wide  our  toil-worn  ranks, 

Along  our  line  a  murmur  runs 
Of  song,  and  praise,  and  grateful 
thanks. 

Sound  for  the  onset ! — Blast  on  blast ! 
Till    Slavery's   minions    cower   and 

quail ; 
One  charge  of  fire  shall  drive  them 

fast 

Like   chaff    before    our    Northern 
gale! 

O  prisoners  in  your  house  of  pain, 
Dumb,  toiling  millions,  bound  and 
sold, 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  SHIPLEY. 


9') 


Look!   stretched  o'er   Southern  vale 

and  plain, 
The  Lord's  delivering  hand  behold ! 

Above  the  tyrant's  pride  of  power, 
His  iron  gates  and  guarded  wall, 

The  bolts   which  shattered    Shinar's 

tower 
Hang,  smoking,  for  a  fiercer  fall. 

Awake  !  awake  !  my  Fatherland  ! 

It  is  thy  Northern  light  that  shines ; 
This   stirring    march    of    Freedom's 

band 

The   storm-song   of   thy   mountain 
pines. 

Wake,   dwellers   where   the   day   ex 
pires  ! 
And  hear,  in  winds  that  sweep  your 

lakes 

And  fan  your  prairies'  roaring  fires, 
The      signal-call      that       Freedom 
makes ! 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS 
SHIPLEY. 

GONE  to  thy  Heavenly  Father's  rest! 

The   flowers   of   Eden   round   thee 

blowing, 
And  on  thine  ear  the  murmurs  blest 

Of  Siloa's  waters  softly  flowing! 
Beneath  that  Tree  of  Life  which  gives 
To  all  the  earth  its  healing  leaves 
In  the  white  robe  of  angels  clad, 

And  wandering  by  that  sacred  river, 
Whose  streams  of  holiness  make  glad 

The  city  of  our  God  forever! 

Gentlest  of  spirits  !  —  not  for  thee 
Our  tears  are  shed,  our  sighs  are 
given  ; 

Why  mourn  to  know  thou  art  a  free 
Partaker  of  the  joys  of  Heaven? 

Finished  thy  work,  and  kept  thy  faith 

In  Christian  firmness  unto  death; 

And  beautiful  as  sky  and  earth, 
When  autumn's  sun  is  downward 


The  blessed  memory  of  thy  worth 


Around  thy  place  of  slumber  glow 
ing! 

But  woe  for  us !  who  linger  still 

With   feebler   strength   and   hearts 

less  lowly, 
And  minds  less  steadfast  to  the  will 

Of  Him  whose  every  work  is  holy. 
For  not  like  thine,  is  crucified 
The  spirit  of  our  human  pride: 
And  at  the  bondman's  tale  of  woe, 

And  for  the  outcast  and  forsaken, 
Not  warm  like  thine,  but  cold  and 
slow, 

Our  weaker  sympathies  awaken. 

Darkly  upon  our  struggling  way 

The  storm  of  human  hate  is  sweep 
ing; 
Hunted  and  branded,  and  a  prey, 

Our    watch    amidst    the     darkness 

keeping, 

O  for  that  hidden  strength  which  can 
Nerve  tmto  death  the  inner  man ! 
O  for  thy  spirit,  tried  and  true, 

And  constant  in  the  hour  of  trial, 
Prepare  to  suffer,  or  to  do, 

In  meekness  and  in  self-denial. 

O  for  that  spirit,  meek  and  mild, 
Derided,  spurned,  yet  uncomplain 
ing,— 
By  man  deserted  and  reviled, 

Yet  faithful  to  its  trust  remaining. 
Still  prompt  and  resolute  to  save 
From  scourge  and  chain  the  hunted 

slave ; 

Unwavering  in  the  Truth's  defence, 
Even  where  the  fires  of  Hate  were 

burning, 

The  unquailing  eye  of  innocence 
Alone  upon  the  oppressor  turning! 

0  loved  of  thousands!  to  thy  grave, 
Sorrowing  of  heart,  thy  brethren  bore 

thee. 

The  poor  man  and  the  rescued  slave 
Wept   as   the   broken   earth   closed 

o'er  thee; 

And  grateful  tears,  like  summer  rain, 
Quickened  its  dying  grass  again! 


96 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


And  there,  as  to  some  pilgrim-shrine, 
Shall    come    the    outcast    and    the 
lowly, 

Of  gentle  deeds  and  words  of  thine 
Recalling  memories  sweet  and  holy ! 

O  for  the  death  the  righteous  die! 

An  end,  like  autumn's  day  declining, 
On  human  hearts,  as  on  the  sky, 

With  holier,  tenderer  beauty  shin 
ing; 

As  to  the  parting  soul  were  given 
The  radiance  of  an  opening  Heaven! 
As  if  that  pure  and  blessed  light, 

From  off  the  Eternal  altar  flowing, 
Were  bathing,  in  its  upward  flight, 

The  spirit  to  its  worship  going! 


TO  A  SOUTHERN  STATESMAN. 
1846. 

Is  this  thy  voice,  whose  treble  notes 

of  fear 
Wail  in  the  wind?     And  dost  thou 

shake  to  hear, 
Actseon-like,   the   bay   of   thine    own 

hounds, 
Spurning  the  leash,  and  leaping  o'er 

their  bounds  ? 
Sore-baffled     statesman!     when     thy 

eager  hand, 

With  game  afoot,  unslipped  the  hun 
gry  pack, 
To  hunt  down  Freedom  in  her  chosen 

land, 
Hadst    thou    no    fear,   that,    erelong, 

doubling  back, 
These  dogs  of  thine  might  snuff  on 

Slavery's  track? 
Where 's  now  the  boast,  which  even 

thy  guarded  tongue, 
Cold,  calm,  and  proud,  in  the  teeth 

o'  the  Senate  flung, 
O'er  the  fulfilment  of  thy  baleful  plan, 
Like  Satan's  triumph  at  the  fall  of 

man? 
How  stood'st  thou  then,  thy  feet  on 

Freedom  planting, 


And  pointing  to  the  lurid  heaven  afar, 
Whence   all    could   see,   through   the 

south  windows  slanting, 
Crimson  as  blood,  the  beams  of  that 

Lone  Star! 
The  Fates  are  just;  they  give  us  but 

our  own ; 
Nemesis  ripens  what  our  hands  have 

sown. 

There   is  an   Eastern  story,  not  un 
known, 
Doubtless,    to    thee,    of    one     whose 

magic  skill 
Called  demons  up  his  water-jars  to 

fill; 

Deftly  and  silently,  they  did  his  will, 
But,  when  the  task  was   done,  kept 

pouring  still, 

In  vain  with  spell  and  charm  the  wiz 
ard  wrought, 
Faster  and   faster   were  the  buckets 

brought, 
Higher  and    higher    rose  the    flood 

around, 
Till   the   fiends   clapped   their   hands 

above  their  master  drowned ! 
So,   Carolinian,   it    may    prove    with 

thee, 
For  God  still  overrules  man's  schemes, 

and  takes 
Craftiness  in   its   self-set   snare,  and 

makes 
The  wrath  of  man  to  praise  Him.    It 

may  be, 

That  the  roused  spirits  of  Democracy 
May  leave  to  freer  States  the  same 

wide  door 
Through     which      thy     slave-cursed 

Texas  entered  in, 
From  out  the   blood    and    fire,    the 

wrong  and  sin, 
Of  the  stormed  city  and  the  ghastly 

plain, 
Beat  by  hot  hail,  and  wet  with  bloody 

rain, 
A    myriad-handed    Aztec    host     may 

pour, 
And  swarthy  South  with  pallid  North 

combine 

Back  on  thyself  to  turn  thy  dark  de 
sign. 


LINES. 


97 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  ADOPTION  OF  PINCK- 
NEY'S  RESOLUTIONS,  IN  THE  HOUSE 
OF  REPRESENTATIVES,  AND  THE  PAS 
SAGE  OF  CALHOUN'S  "BILL  FOR  EX 
CLUDING  PAPERS  WRITTEN  OR  PRINTED, 
TOUCHING  THE  SUBJECT  OF  SLAVERY 
FROM  THE  U.  S.  POST-OFFICE/'  IN  THE 
SENATE  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES. 

MEN  of  the  North-land!  where's  the 

manly  spirit 

Of    the    true-hearted    and    the    un 
shackled  gone? 

Sons  of  old  freemen,  do  we  but  in 
herit 

Their  names  alone? 

Is    the   old    Pilgrim    spirit    quenched 

within  us, 
Stoops  the  strong  manhood  of  our 

souls  so  low, 

That  Mammon's  lure  or  Party's  wile 
can  win  us 

To  silence  now? 

Now,  when  our  land  to  ruin's  brink  is 

verging, 
In  God's  name,  let  us  speak  while 

there  is  time! 

Now,  when  the  padlocks  for  our  lips 
are  forging, 

Silence  is  crime ! 

What!    shall    we   henceforth  humbly 

ask  as  favors 
Rights  all  our  own?     In  madness 

shall  we  barter, 

For   treacherous   peace,  the   freedom 
Nature  gave  us, 

God  and  our  charter? 

Here   shall   the   statesman   forge   his 

human  fetters. 
Here  the  false  jurist  human  rights 

deny, 

And,  in  the  church,  their  proud  and 
skilled  abettors 

Make  truth  a  lie? 


Torture  the   pages   of  the   hallowed 

Bible, 
To    sanction   crime,     and    robbery, 

and  blood? 

And,  in  Oppression's  hateful  service, 
libel 

Both  man  and  God? 

Shall  our  New  England  stand  erect 

no  longer, 

But  stoop  in  chains  upon  her  down 
ward  way, 

Thicker  to  gather  on  her  limbs  and 
stronger 

Day  after  day? 

O  no;   methinks   from  all  her  wild, 

green  mountains, — 
From  valleys  where  her  slumbering 

fathers  lie, — 

From  her  blue  rivers  and  her  welling 
fountains, 

And  clear,  cold  sky, — 

From   her   rough     coast,    and    isles, 

which  hungry  Ocean 
Gnaws  with  his  surges, — from  the 

fisher's  skiff, 

With  white   sail  swaying  to  the  bil 
lows'  motion 

Round  rock  and  cliff, — 

From  the  free  fireside    of    her    un- 

bought  farmer, — 
From  her  free  laborer  at  his  loom 

and  wheel,— 

From  the  brown  smith-shop,   where, 
beneath  the  hammer, 

Rings  the  red  steel, — 

From  each  and  all,  if  God  hath  not 

forsaken 
Our  land,   and  left  us  to-  an   evil 

choice, 

Loud  as  the  summer  thunderbolt  shall 
waken 

A  People's  voice. 

Startling   and    stern!     the    Northern 

winds  shall  bear  it 
Over    Potomac's     to     St.     Mary's 
wave; 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


And  buried  Freedom  shall  awake  to 
hear  it 

Within  her  grave. 

O,  let  that  voice  go  forth  !    The  bond 

man  sighing 
By  Santee's   wave,  in   Mississippi' 

cane, 

Shall  feel  the  hope,  within  his  bosom 
dying, 

Revive  again. 

Let  it  go  forth !     The  millions  whc 

are  gazing 
Sadly   upon    us   from    afar,    shal 

smile, 

And  unto   God   devout   thanksgiving 
raising, 

Bless  us  the  while. 

O  for  your  ancient  freedom,  pure  and 

holy, 
For  the  deliverance  of  a  groaning 

earth, 

For    the    wronged    captive,    bleeding 
crushed,  and  lowly, 

Let  it  go  "forth! 

Sons  of  the  best  of  fathers!  will  ve 

falter 
With  all  they  left  ye  perilled  and 

at  stake? 

Ho!   once  again  on   Freedom's  holy 
altar 

The  fire  awake ! 

Prayer-strengthened     for     the     trial, 

come  together, 
Put  on  the  harness  for  the  moral 

fight, 

And,  with  the  blessing  of  your  Heav 
enly  Father, 

MAINTAIN  THE  RIGHT  ! 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  CHARTER- 
BREAKERS. 

IN  Westminster's  royal  halls, 
Robed  in  their  pontificals, 
England's  ancient  prelates  stood 
For  the  people's  right  and  good. 


Closed  around  the  waiting  crowd, 
Dark  and  still,  like  winter's  cloud ; 
King  and  council,  lord  and  knight, 
Squire  and  yeoman,  stood  in  sight, — 

Stood  to  hear  the  priest  rehearse, 
In  God's  name,  the  Church's  curse, 
By  the  tapers  round  them  lit, 
Slowly,  sternly  uttering  it. 

"  Right  of  voice  in  framing  laws, 
Right  of  peers  to  try  each  cause; 
Peasant  homestead,  mean  and  small, 
Sacred  as  the  monarch's  hall, — 

"  Whoso  lays  his  hands  on  these, 
England's  ancient  liberties, — • 
Whoso  breaks,  by  word  or  deed, 
England's  vow  at  Runnymede, — 

"  Be  he  Prince  or  belted  knight, 
Whatsoe'er  his  rank  or  might, 
If  the  highest,  then  the  worst, 
Let  him  live  and  die  accursed. 

"  Thou,  who  to  thy  Church  hast  given 
Keys  alike,  of  hell  and  heaven, 
Make  our  word  and  witness  sure, 
Let  the  curse  we  speak  endure !  " 

Silent,  while  the  curse  was  said, 
Every  bare  and  listening  head 
Bowed  in  reverent  awe,  and  then 
All  the  people  said,  Amen! 

Seven  times  the  bells  have  tolled, 
For  the  centuries  gray  and  old, 
Since  that  stoled  and  mitred  band 
Cursed  the  tyrants  of  their  land. 

Since  the  priesthood,  like  a  tower, 
Stood  between  the  poor  and  power ; 
And  the  wronged  and  trodden  down 
Blessed  the  abbot's  shaven  crown. 

jone,  thank  God,  their  wizard  spell, 
.ost,  their  keys  of  heaven  and  hell; 
Yet  I  sigh  for  men  as  bold 
As  those  bearded  priests  of  old. 


THE  SLAVES   OF  MARTINIQUE. 


99 


Now,  too  oft  the  priesthood  wait 
At  the  threshold  of  the  state, — 
Waiting  for  the  beck  and  nod 
Of  its  power  as  law  and  God. 

Fraud  exults,  while  solemn  words 
Sanctify  his  stolen  hoards; 
Slavery  laughs,  while  ghostly  lips 
Bless  his  manacles  and  whips. 

Not  on  them  the  poor  rely, 
Not  to  them  looks  liberty, 
Who  with  fawning  falsehood  cower 
To   the   wrong,   when     clothed    with 
power. 

O,  to  see  them  meanly  cling, 
Round  the  master,  round  the  king, 
Sported  with,  and  sold  and  bought,— 
Pitifuller  sight  is  not ! 

Tell  me  not  that  this  must  be: 
God's  true  priest  is  always  free; 
Free,  the  needed  truth  to  speak, 
Right    the    wronged,    and    raise    the 
weak. 

Not  to  fawn  on  wealth  and  state, 
Leaving  Lazarus  at  the  gate, — 
Not  to  peddle  creeds  like  wares, — 
Not  to  mutter  hireling  prayers, — 

Nor  to  paint  the  new  life's  bliss 
On  the  sable  ground  of  this, — 
Golden  streets  for  idle  knave, 
Sabbath  rest  for  weary  slave ! 


Not  for  words  and  works  like  these, 
Priest  of  God,  thy  mission  is; 
But  to  make  earth's  desert  glad, 
In  its  Eden  greenness  clad ; 

And  to  level  manhood  bring 
Lord  and  peasant,  serf  and  king; 
And  the  Christ  of  God  to  find 
In  the  humblest  of  thy  kind! 

Thine  to  work  as  well  as  pray, 
Clearing  thorny  wrongs  away; 
Plucking  up  the  weeds  of  sin, 
Letting  Heaven's  warm  sunshine  in, — 

Watching  on  the  hills  of  Faith ; 
Listening  what  the  spirit  saith, 
Of  the  dim-seen  light  afar, 
Growing  like  a  nearing  star. 

God's  interpreter  art  thou, 
To  the  waiting  ones  below; 
'Twixt  them  and  its  light  midway 
Heralding  the  better  day, — 

Catching  gleams  of  temple  spires, 
Hearing  notes  of  angel  choirs, 
Where,  as  yet  unseen  of  them, 
Comes  the  New  Jerusalem! 

Like  the  seer  of  Patmos  gazing, 
On  the  glory  downward  blazing; 
Till  upon   Earth's  grateful   sod 
Rests  the  City  of  our  God! 


THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE. 

SUGGESTED  BY  A    DAGUERREOTYPE    FROM    A    FRENCH    ENGRAVING. 

BEAMS  of  noon,  like  burning  lances,  through  the  tree-tops  flash  and  glisten, 
As  she  stands  before  her  lover,  with  raised  face  to  look  and  listen. 

Dark,  but  comely,  like  the  maiden  in  the  ancient  Jewish  song: 
Scarcely  has  the  toil  of  task-fields  done  her  graceful  beauty  wrong. 


He,  the  strong  one  and  the  manly,  with  the  vassal's  garb  and  hue, 
Holding  still  his  spirit's  birthright,  to  his  higher  nature  true; 


100  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Hiding  deep  the  strengthening  purpose  of  a  freeman  in  his  heart, 
As  the  greegree  holds  his  Fetich  from  the  white  man's  gaze  apart. 

Ever  foremost  of  his  comrades,  when  the  driver's  morning  horn 
Calls  away  to  stifling  mill-house,  to  the  fields  of  cane  and  corn: 

Fall  the  keen  and  burning  lashes  never  on  his  back  or  limb; 
Scarce  with  look  or  word  of  censure,  turns  the  driver  unto  him. 

Yet,  his  brow  is  always  thoughtful,  and  his  eye  is  hard  and  stern ; 
Slavery's  last  and  humblest  lesson  he  has  never  deigned  to  learn. 

And,  at  evening,  when  his  comrades  dance  before  their  master's  door, 
Folding  arms  and  knitting  forehead,  stands  he  silent  evermore. 

God  be  praised  for  every  instinct  which  rebels  against  a  lot 

Where  the  brute  survives  the  human,  and  man's  upright  form  is  not ! 

As  the  serpent-like  bejuco  winds  his  spiral  fold  on  fold 
Round  the  tall  and  stately  ceiba,  till  it  withers  in  his  hold;— 

Slow  decays  the  forest  monarch,  closer  girds  the  fell  embrace, 
Till  the  tree  is  seen  no  longer,  and  the  vine  is  in  its  place, — 

So  a  base  and  bestial  nature  round  the  vassal's  manhood  twines, 
And  the  spirit  wastes  beneath  it,  like  the  ceiba  choked  with  vines. 

God  is  Love,  saith  the  Evangel ;  and  our  world  of  woe  and  sin 
Is  made  light  and  happy  only  when  a  Love  is  shining  in. 

Ye  whose  lives  are  free  as  sunshine,  finding,  wheresoe'er  ye  roam, 
Smiles  of  welcome,  looks  of  kindness,  making  all  the  world  like  home; 

In  the  veins  of  whose  affections  kindred  blood  is  but  a  part, 
Of  one  kindly  current  throbbing  from  the  universal  heart ; 

Can  ye  know  the  deeper  meaning  of  a  love  in  Slavery  nursed, 
Last  flower  of  a  lost  Eden,  blooming  in  that  Soil  accursed  ? 

Love  of  Home,  and  Love  of  Woman !— dear  to  all,  but  doubly  dear 
To  the  heart  whose  pulses  elsewhere  measure  only  hate  and  fear. 

All  around  the  desert  circles,  underneath  a  brazen  sky, 

Only  one  green  spot  remaining  where  the  dew  is  never  dry! 

From  the  horror  of  that  desert,  from  its  atmosphere  of  hell, 
Turns  the  fainting  spirit  thither,  as  the  diver  seeks  his  bell. 


THE   SLAVES   OF  MARTINIQUE.  101 

'T  is  the  fervid  tropic  noontime ;  faint  and  low  the  sea-waves  beat ; 
Hazy  rise  the  inland  mountains  through  the  glimmer  of  the  heat, — 

Where,  through  mingled  leaves  and  blossoms,  arrowy  sunbeams  flash  and 

glisten, 
Speaks  her  lover  to  the  slave  girl,  and  she  lifts  her  head  to  listen : — 

"  We  shall  live  as  slaves  no  longer !     Freedom's  hour  is  close  at  hand ! 
Rocks  her  bark  upon  the  waters,  rests  the  boat  upon  the  strand! 

"  I  have  seen  the  Haytien  Captain ;  I  have  seen  his  swarthy  crew, 
Haters  of  the  pallid  faces,  to  their  race  and  color  true. 

"  They  have  sworn  to  wait  our  coming  till  the  night  has  passed  its  noon, 
And  the  gray  and  darkening  waters  roll  above  the  sunken  moon !  " 

0  the  blessed  hope  of  freedom!  how  with  joy  and  glad  surprise, 
For  an  instant  throbs  her  bosom,  for  an  instant  beam  her  eyes ! 

But  she  looks  across  the  valley,  where  her  mother's  hut  is  seen, 
Through  the  snowy  bloom  of  coffee,  and  the  lemon-leaves  so  green. 

And  she  answers,  sad  and  earnest:     "  It  were  wrong  for  thee  to  stay; 
God  hath  heard  thy  prayer  for  freedom,  and  his  finger  points  the  way. 

"  Well  I  know  with  what  endurance,  for  the  sake  of  me  and  mine, 
Thou  hast  borne  too  long  a  burden  never  meant  for  souls  like  thine. 

"  Go ;  and  at  the  hour  of  midnight,  when  our  last  farewell  is  o'er, 
Kneeling  on  our  place  of  parting,  I  will  bless  thee  from  the  shore. 

"  But  for  me,  my  mother,  lying  on  her  sick-bed  all  the  day. 

Lifts  her  weary  head  to  watch  me,  coming  through  the  twilight  gray. 

"  Should  I  leave  her  sick  and  helpless,  even  freedom,  shared  with  thee, 
Would  be  sadder  far  than  bondage,  lonely  toil,  and  stripes  to  me. 

"  For  my  heart  would  die  within  me,  and  my  brain  would  soon  be  wild ; 

1  should  hear  my  mother  calling  through  the  twilight  for  her  child !  " 

Blazing  upward  from  the  ocean,  shines  the  sun  of  morning-time, 
Through  the  coffee-trees  in  blossom,  and  green  hedges  of  the  lime. 

Side  by  side,  amidst  the  slave-gang,  toil  the  lover  and  the  maid; 
Wherefore  looks  he  o'er  the  waters,  leaning  forward  on  his  spade? 

Sadly  looks  he,  deeply  sighs  he :  't  is.  the  Haytien's  sail  he  sees, 
Like  a  white  cloud  of  the  mountains,  driven  seaward  by  the  breeze! 


102  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


But  his  arm  a  light  hand  presses,  and  he  hears  a  low  voice  call 
Hate  of  Slavery,  hope  of  Freedom,  Love  is  mightier  than  all. 


THE  CRISIS. 

WRITTEN    ON    LEARNING   THE    TERMS    OF    THE    TREATY    WITH    MEXICO. 

ACROSS  the  Stony  Mountains,  o'er  the  desert's  drouth  and  sand, 
The  circles  of  our  empire  touch  the  Western  Ocean's  strand ; 
From  slumberous  Timpanogos,  to  Gila,  wild  and  free, 
Flowing  down  from  Nuevo-Leon  to  California's  sea; 
And  from  the  mountains  of  the  East,  to  Santa  Rosa's  shore, 
The  eagles  of  Mexitli  shall  beat  the  air  no  more. 

O  Vale  of  Rio  Bravo !     Let  thy  simple  children  weep ; 
Close  watch  about  their  holy  fire  let  maids  of  Pecos  keep; 
Let  Taos  send  her  cry  across  Sierra  Madre's  pines, 
And  Algodones  toll  her  bells  amidst  her  corn  and  vines ; 
For  lo !  the  pale  land-seekers  come,  with  eager  eyes  of  gain, 
Wide  scattering,  like  the  bison  herds  on  broad  Salada's  plain. 

Let  Sacramento's  herdsmen  heed  what  sound  the  wings  bring  down 

Of  footsteps  on  the  crisping  snow,  from  cold  Nevada's  crown ! 

Full  hot  and  fast  the  Saxon  rides,  with  rein  of  travel  slack, 

And,  bending  o'er  his  saddle,  leaves  the  sunrise  at  his  back ; 

By  many  a  lonely  river,  and  gorge  of  fir  and  pine, 

On  many  a  wintry  hill-top,  his  nightly  camp-fires  shine. 

O  countrymen  and  brothers !  that  land  of  lake  and  plain, 

Of  salt  wastes  alternating  with  valleys  fat  with  grain ; 

Of  mountains  white  with  winter,  looking  downward,  cold,  serene,. 

On  their  feet  with  spring-vines  tangled  and  lapped  in  softest  green; 

Swift  through  whose  black  volcanic  gates,  o'er  many  a  sunny  vale, 

Wind-like  the  Arapahoe  sweeps  the  bison's  dusty  trail ! 

Great  spaces  yet  untravelled,  great  lakes  whose  mystic  shores 

The  Saxon  rifle  never  heard,  nor  dip  of  Saxon  oars ; 

Great  herds  that  wander  all  unwatched,  wild  steeds  that  none  have  tamed. 

Strange  fish  in  unknown  streams,  and  birds  the  Saxon  never  named; 

Deep  mines,  dark  mountain  crucibles,  where  Nature's  chemic  powers 

Work  out  the  Great  Designer's  will; — all  these  ye  say  are  ours! 

Forever  ours !  for  good  or  ill,  on  us  the  burden  lies ; 

God's  balance,  watched  by  angels,  is  hung  across  the  skies. 

Shall  Justice,  Truth,  and  Freedom  turn  the  poised  and  trembling  scale? 

Or  shall  the  Evil  triumph,  and  robber  Wrong  prevail? 

Shall  the  broad  land  o'er  which  our  flag  in  starry  splendor  waves, 

Forego  through  us  its  freedom,  and  bear  the  tread  of  slaves? 


THE  CRISIS.  103 


The  day  is  breaking  in  the  East  of  which  the  prophets  told, 
And  brightens  up  the  sky  of  Time  the  Christian  Age  of  Gold ; 
Old  Might  to  Right  is  yielding,  battle  blade  to  clerkly  pen, 
Earth's  monarchs  are  her  peoples,  and  her  serfs  stand  up  as  men; 
The  isles  rejoice  together,  in  a  day  are  nations  born, 
And  the  slave  walks  free  in  Tunis,  and  by  Stamboul's  Golden  Horn ! 


Is  this,  O  countrymen  of  mine !  a  day  for  us  to  sow 

The  soil  of  new-gained  empire  with  slavery's  seeds  of  woe? 

To  feed  with  our  fresh-blood  the  Old  World's  cast-off  crime, 

Dropped,  like  some  monstrous  early  birth,  from  the  tired  lap  of  Time? 

To  run  anew  the  evil  race  the  old  lost  nations  ran, 

And  die  like  them  of  unbelief  of  God,  and  wrong  of  man? 


Great  Heaven!     Is  this  our  mission?     End  in  this  the  prayers  and  tears, 
The  toil,  the  strife,  the  watchings  of  our  younger,  better  years? 
Still  as  the  Old  World  rolls  in  light,  shall  ours  in  shadow  turn, 
A  beam1ess  Chaos,  cursed  of  God,  through  outer  darkness  borne? 
Where  the  far  nations  looked  for  light,  a  blackness  in  the  air? 
Where  for  words  of  hope  they  listened,  the  long  wail  of  despair? 


The  Crisis  presses  on  us ;  face  to  face  with  us  it  stands, 

With  solemn  lips  of  question,  like  the  Sphinx  in  Egypt's  sands ! 

This  day  we  fashion  Destiny,  our  web  of  Fate  we  spin ; 

This  day  for  all  hereafter  choose  we  holiness  or  sin ; 

Even  now  from  starry  Gerizim,  or  Ebal's  cloudy  crown, 

We  call  the  dews  of  blessing  or  the  bolts  of  cursing  down ! 


By  all  for  which  the  martyrs  bore  their  agony  and  shame ; 
By  all  the  warning  words  of  truth  with  which  the  prophets  came 
By  the  Future  which  awaits  us ;  by  all  the  hopes  which  cast 
Their  faint  and  trembling  beams  across  the  blackness  of  the  Past ; 
And  by  the  blessed  thought  of  Him  who  for  Earth's  freedom  died, 
O  my  people !  O  my  brothers !  let  us  choose  the  righteous  side. 


So  shall  the  Northern  pioneer  go  joyful  on  his  way; 

To  wed  Penobscot's  waters  to  San  Francisco's  bay ; 

To  make  the  rugged  places  smooth,  and  sow  the  vales  with  grain ; 

And  bear,  with  Liberty  and  Law,  the  Bible  in  his  train : 

The  mighty  West  shall  bless  the  East,  and  sea  shall  answer  sea, 

And  mountain  unto  mountain  call,  PRAISE  GOD,  FOR  WE  ARE  FREE  ! 


104 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  ST.  JOHN. 

ERE  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hills 

The  sun  shall  sink  again, 
Farewell  to  life  and  all  its  ills, 

Farewell  to  cell  and  chain. 

These   prison    shades   are   dark    and 
cold,— 

But,  darker  far  than  they, 
The  shadow  of  a  sorrow  old 

Is  on  my  heart  alway. 

For  since  the  day  when  Warkworth- 
wood 

Closed  o'er  my  steed  and  I, 
An  alien  from  my  name  and  blood, 

A  weed  cast  out  to  die, — 

'".'.""  v  ^ 

When,  looking  back  in  s-uhset  light, 

I  saw  her  turret  gleam, 
And  from  its  casement,  far  and  white, 

Her  sign  of  farewell  stream, 

Like    one    who,    from     some   desert 
shore, 

Doth  home's  green  isles  descry, 
And,  vainly  longing,  gazes  o'er 

The  waste  of  wave  and  sky; 

So  from  the  desert  of  my  fate 

I  gaze  across  the  past ; 
Forever  on  life's  dial-plate 

The  shade  is  backward  cast ! 

I've  wandered  wide  from    shore    to 
shore, 

I've  knelt  at  many  a  shrine ; 
And  bowed  me  to  the  rocky  floor 

Where  Bethlehem's  tapers  shine; 

And  by  the  Holy  Sepulchre 

I've  pledged  my  knightly  sword 

To   Christ,    his  .blessed   Church,    and 

her, 
The  Mother  of  our  Lord. 


O,  vain  the  vow,  and  vain  the  strife ! 

How  vain  do  all  things  seem ! 
My  soul  is  in  the  past,  and  life 

To-day  is  but  a  dream ! 


In    vain    the    penance     strange     and 

long, 

And  hard  for  flesh  to  bear ; 
The   prayer,     the    fasting,    and    the 

thong 
And  sackcloth  shirt  of  hair. 


The  eyes  of  memory  will  not  sleep, — 

Its  ears  are  open  still ; 
And  vigils  with  the  past  they  keep 

Against  my  feeble  will. 

And  still  the  loves  and  joys  of  old 

Do  evermore  uprise; 
I  see  the  flow  of  locks  of  gold, 

The  shine  of  loving  eyes  ! 

Ah  me!  upon  another's  breast 
Those  golden  locks   recline ; 

I  see  upon  another  rest 
The  glance  that  once  was  mine. 

"O    faithless     priest!  —  O     perjured 
knight !  " 

I  hear  the  Master  cry ; 
"  Shut  out  the  vision  from  thy  sight, 

Let  Earth  and  Nature  die. 

"  The    Church    of    God    is   now  thy 
spouse, 

And  thou  the  bridegroom  art ; 
Then  let  the  burden  of  thy  vows 

Crush  down  thy  human  heart !  " 

In  vain!     This    heart   its   grief  must 
know, 

Till  life  itself  hath  ceased, 
And  falls  beneath  the  selfsame  blow 

The  lover  and  the  priest! 


PALESTINE. 


105 


O  pitying  Mother!  souls  of  light, 
And  saints,  and  martyrs  old! 

Pray  for  a  weak  and  sinful  knight, 
A  suffering  man  uphold. 

Then  let  the  Paynim  work  his  will, 
And  death  unbind  my  chain, 

Ere  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hill 
The  sun  shall  fall  again. 


THE  HOLY  LAND. 

FROM     LAMARTINE. 

I  HAVE  not  felt,  o'er  seas  of  sand, 

The  rocking  of  the  desert  bark; 
Nor   laved    at    Hebron's     fount    my 
hand, 

By   Hebron's   palm-trees    cool  and 

"dark ; 
Nor  pitched  my  tent  at  even-fall, 

On  dust  where  Job  of  old  has  lain, 
Nor  dreamed  beneath  its  canvas  wall, 

The  dream  of  Jacob  o'er  again. 

One  vast  world-page  remains  unread ; 
How   shine  the  stars  in  Chaldea's 

sky, 
How    sounds   the    reverent   pilgrim's 

tread, 
How  beats  the  heart  with  God  so 

nigh ! — 
How    round   gray   arch    and    column 

lone 

The  spirit  of  the  old  time  broods, 
And  sighs  in  all  the  winds  that  moan 
Along  the  sandy  solitudes ! 

In  thy  tall  cedars,  Lebanon, 

I  have  not  heard  the  nations'  cries, 
Nor  seen  thy  eagles  stooping  down 

Where  buried  Tyre  in  ruin  lies. 
The  Christian's  prayer    I    have    not 
said 

In  Tadmor's  temples  of  decay, 
Nor  startled,  with  my  dreary  tread, 

The  waste  where  Memnon's  empire 
lay. 


Nor  have  I,  from  thy  hallowed  tide, 

O  Jordan!  heard  the  low  lament, 
Like  that  sad  wail  along  thy  side 
Which   Israel's    mournful    prophet 

sent! 

Nor  thrilled  within  that  grotto  lone 
Where,  deep  in  night,  the  Bard  of 

Kings 

Felt  hands  of  fire  direct  his  own, 
And  sweep  for  God  the  conscious 
strings. 

I  have  not  climbed  to  Olivet, 

Nor  laid  me  where  my  Saviour  lay, 
And  left  his  trace  of  tears  as  yet 

By  angel  eyes  unwept  away; 
Nor  watched,    at   midnight's   solemn 
time, 

The  garden  where  his  prayer  and 

groan, 
Wrung  by  his  sorrow  and  our  crime, 

Rose  to  One  listening  ear  alone. 

I  have  not  J^SSed*"  the  rock-hewn  grot 
Where  in  his  Mother's  arms  he  lay, 
Nor  knelt  upon  the  sacred  spot 
Where  last  his  footsteps  pressed  the 

clay ; 
Nor    looked    on   that    sad    mountain 

head, 
Nor  smote  my  sinful  breast,  where 

wide 

His  arms  to  fold  the  world  he  spread, 
And  bowed  his  head  to  bless — and 
died! 


PALESTINE. 

BLEST  land  of  Judaea !  thrice  hallowed 
of  song, 

Where  the  holiest  of  memories  pil 
grim-like  throng; 

In  the  shade  of  thy  palms,  by  the 
shores  of  thy  sea, 

On  the  hills  of  thy  beauty,  my  heart 
is  with  thee. 

With  the  eye  of  a  spirit  I  look  on 
that  shore, 


106 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Where  pilgrim  and  prophet  have  lin 
gered  before ; 

With  the  glide  of  a  spirit  I  traverse 
the  sod 

Made  bright  by  the  steps  of  the 
angels  of  God. 

Blue  sea  of  the  hills ! — in  my  spirit  I 

hear 
Thy  waters,  Genesaret,  chime  on  my 

ear; 
Where  the  Lowly  and  Just  with  the 

people  sat  down, 
And   thy   spray   on    the    dust   of   his 

sandals  was  thrown. 


Beyond  are  Bethulia's  mountains  of 

green, 
And   the   desolate   hills   of  the   wild 

Gadarene ; 
And   I    pause   on    the   goat-crags   of 

Tabor  to  sec 
The   gleam    of   thy    waters,    O    dark 

Galilee! 


Hark,  a  sound  in  the  valley!  where, 
swollen  and  strong, 

Thy  river,  O  Kishon,  is  sweeping 
along ; 

Where  the  Canaanite  strove  with  Je 
hovah  in  vain, 

And  thy  torrent  grew  dark  with  the 
blood  of  the  slain. 


There  down  from  his  mountains  stern 

Zebulon  came, 
And  Naphtali's  stag,  with  his  eyeballs 

of  flame, 
And    the    chariots    of    Jabin    rolled 

harmlessly  on, 
For  the  arm  of  the  Lord  was  Abino- 

am's  son! 


There  sleep  the  still   rocks   and  the 

caverns  which  rang 
To    the    song    which    the    beautiful 

prophetess  sang, 
When  the  princes  of  Issachar  stood 

by  her  side, 


And  the  shout  of  a  host  in  its  triumph 
replied. 

Lo,  Bethlehem's  hill-site  before  me  is 

seen, 
With  the  mountains  around,  and  the 

valleys  between ; 
There  rested  the  shepherds  of  Judah, 

and  there 
The  song  of  the  angels  rose  sweet  on 

the  air. 

And  Bethany's  palm-trees  in  beauty 
still  throw 

Their  shadows  at  noon  on  the  ruins 
below ; 

But  where  are  the  sisters  who  has 
tened  to  greet 

The  lowly  Redeemer,  and  sit  at  his 
feet? 

I    tread   where   the   TWELVE    in    their 

wayfaring  trod ; 
I    stand   where   they   stood   with   the 

CHOSEN  OF  GOD, — 
Where  his  blessing  was  heard  and  his 

lessons  were  taught, 
Where   the  blind   were   restored  and 

the  healing  was  wrought. 

O,  here  with  his  flock  the  sad  Wan 
derer  came, — • 

These  hills  he  toiled  over  in  grief  are 
the  same, — 

The  founts  where  he  drank  by  the 
wayside  still  flow, 

And  the  same  airs  are  blowing  which 
breathed  on  his  brow! 

And  throned  on  her  hills  sits  Jerusa 
lem  yet, 

But  with  dust  on  her  forehead,  and 
chains  on  her  feet ; 

For  the  crown  of  her  pride  to  the 
mocker  hath  gone, 

And  the  holy  Shechinah  is  dark  where 
it  shone. 

But  wherefore  this  dream  of  the 
earthly  abode 


EZEKIEL. 


107 


Of  Humanity  clothed  in  the  bright 
ness  of  God? 

Were  my  spirit  but  turned  from  the 
outward  and  dim, 

It  could  gaze,  even  now,  on  the  pres 
ence  of  Him ! 

Not  in  clouds  and  in  terrors,  but 
gentle  as  when, 

In  love  and  in  meekness,  He  moved 
among  men ; 

And  the  voice  which  breathed  peace 
to  the  waves  of  the  sea 

In  the  hush  of  my  spirit  would  whis 
per  to  me ! 

And  what  if  my  feet  may  not  tread 
where  He  stood, 

Nor  my  ears  hear  the  dashing  of  Gal 
ilee's  flood, 

Nor  my  eyes  see  the  cross  which  He 
bowed  him  to  bear, 

Nor  my  knees  press  Gethsemane's 
garden  of  prayer. 

Yet,  Loved  of  the  Father,  thy  Spirit 
is  near 

To  the  meek,  and  the  lowly,  and  pen 
itent  here; 

And  the  voice  of  thy  love  is  the  same 
even  now 

As  at  Bethany's  tomb  or  on  Olivet's 
brow. 

O,   the   outward   hath   gone! — but   in 

glory  and  power, 
The  SPIRIT  surviveth  the  things  of  an 

hour ; 
Unchanged,  undecaying,  its  Pentecost 

flame 
On  the  heart's  secret  altar  is  burning 

the  same! 


EZEKIEL. 

CHAPTER  XXXIII.  30-33. 

THEY  hear  thee  not,  O  God!  nor  see; 
Beneath  thy  rod  they  mock  at  thee; 
The  princes  of  our  ancient  line 


Lie  drunken  with  Assyrian  wine; 
The  priests  around  thy  altar  speak 
The  false  words  which  their  hearers 

seek; 
And  hymns  which  Chaldea's  wanton 

maids 

Have  sung  in  Dura's  idol-shades 
Are  with  the  Levites'  chant  ascending, 
With   Zion's    holiest   anthems    blend 
ing! 

On  Israel's  bleeding  bosom  set, 
The  heathen  heel  is  crushing  yet; 
The  towers  upon  our  holy  hill 
Echo  Chaldean  footsteps  still. 
Our  wasted  shrines, — who  weeps  for 

them? 

Who  mourneth  for  Jerusalem? 
Who  turneth  from  his  gains  away? 
Whose  knee  with  mine  is  bowed  to 

pray? 

Who,  leaving  feast  and  purpling  cup, 
Takes  Zion's  lamentation  up? 

A  sad  and  thoughtful  youth,  I  went 
With   Israel's   early  banishment; 
And  w;here  the  sullen  Chebar  crept, 
The  ritual  of  my  fathers  kept. 
The  water  for  the  trench  I  drew, 
The  firstling  of  the  flock  I  slew, 
And,  standing  at  the  altar's  side, 
I  shared  the  Levites'  lingering  pride, 
That  still,  amidst  her  mocking  foes, 
The  smoke  of  Zion's  offering  rose. 

In  sudden  whirlwind,  cloud  and  flame, 
The  Spirit  of  the  Highest  came ! 
Before  mine  eyes  a  vision  passed, 
A   glory  terrible  and  vast; 
With  dreadful  eyes  of  living  things, 
And  sounding  sweep  of  angel  wings, 
With    circling     light     and     sapphire 

throne, 

And  flame-like  form  of  One  thereon, 
And  voice  of  that  dread  Likeness  sent 
Down  from  the  crystal  firmament ! 

The  burden  of  a  prophet's  power 
Fell  on  me  in  that  fearful  hour; 
From  off  unutterable  woes 
The  curtain  of  the  future  rose; 


108 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


I  saw  far  down  the  coming  time 
The  fiery  chastisement  of  crime; 
With  noise  of  mingling  hosts,  and  jar 
Of  falling  towers  and  shouts  of  war, 
I  saw  the  nations  rise  and  fall, 
Like  fire-gleams  on  my  tent's  white 
wall. 

In  dream  and  trance,  I  saw  the  slain 
Of  Egypt  heaped  like  harvest  grain; 
I  saw  the  walls  of  sea-born  Tyre 
Swept  over  by  the  spoiler's  fire ; 
And  heard  the  low,  expiring  moan 
Of  Edom  on  his  rocky  throne ; 
And,  woe  is  me!  the  wild  lament 
From  Zion's  desolation  sent; 
And  felt  within  my  heart  each  blow 
Which  laid  her  holy  places  low. 

In  bonds  and  sorrow,  day  by  day, 
Before  the  pictured  tile   I  lay; 
And  there,  as  in  a  mirror,  saw 
The  coming  of  Assyria's  war, — 
Her  swarthy  lines  of  spearmen  pass 
Like     locusts     through     Bethhoron's 

grass ; 

I  saw  them  draw  their  stormy  hem 
Of  battle  round  Jerusalem; 
And,    listening,    heard    the    Hebrew 

wail 
Blend  with  the  victor-trump  of  Baal ! 

Who  trembled  at  my  warning  word? 
Who  owned  the  prophet  of  the  Lord  ? 
How  mocked  the  rude, — how  scoffed 

the  vile, — 
How     stung     the    Levites'     scornful 

smile, 

As  o'er  my  spirit,  dark  and  slow, 
The  shadow  crept  of  Israel's  woe, 
As  if  the  angel's  mournful  roll 
Had  left  its   record  on  my  soul, 
And  traced  in  lines  of  darkness  there 
The  picture  of  its  great  despair! 

Yet  ever  at  the  hour  I  feel 
My  lips  in  prophecy  unseal. 
Prince,  priest,  and  Levite  gather  near, 
And  Salem' s  daughters  haste  to  hear, 
On  Chebar's  waste  and  alien  shore, 
The  harp  of  Judah  swept  once  more. 


They  listen,  as  in  Babel's  throng 
The  Chaldeans  to  the  dancer's  song, 
Or  wild  sabbeka's  nightly  play, 
As  careless  and  as  vain  as  they. 


And  thus,  O  Prophet-bard  of  old, 
Hast  thou  thy  tale  of  sorrow  told! 
The   same  which  earth's   unwelcome 

seers 

Have  felt  in  all  succeeding  years. 
Sport  of  the   changeful  multitude, 
Nor  calmly  heard  nor  understood, 
Their  song  has  seemed  a  trick  of  art, 
Their  warnings  but  the  actor's  part. 
With  bonds,  and  scorn,  and  evil  will, 
The  world  requites  its  prophets  still. 

So  was  it  when  the  Holy  One 
The  garments  of  the  flesh  put  on ! 
Men  followed  where  the  Highest  led 
For   common  gifts  of  daily  bread, 
And  gross  of  ear,  of  vision  dim, 
Owned  not  the  godlike  power  of  him. 
Vain  as  a   dreamer's  words  to  them 
His  wail  above  Jerusalem, 
And  meaningless  the  watch  he  kept 
Through  which    his    weak    disciples 
slept. 

Yet  shrink  not  thou,  whoe'er  thou  art, 
For  God's  great  purpose  set  apart, 
Before  whose  far-discerning  eyes, 
The  Future  as  the  Present  lies! 
Beyond   a  narrow-bounded  age 
Stretches    thy   prophet-heritage, 
Through  Heaven's  dim  spaces  angel- 
trod, 
Through  arches  round  the  throne  of 

God! 
Thy  audience,  worlds ! — all  Time  to 

be 
The  witness  of  the  Truth  in  thee ! 


THE  WIFE  OF  MANOAH  TO 
HER  HUSBAND. 

AGAINST  the  sunset's  glowing  wall 
The  city  towers   rise  black  and  tall, 
Where  Zorah  on  its  rocky  height, 


THE  WIFE  OF  MANOAH  TO  HER  HUSBAND. 


109 


Stands   like  an   armed    man    in    the 
light. 

Down  EshtaoPs  vales  of  ripened  gram 
Falls  like  a  cloud  the  night  amain, 
And  up  the  hillsides  climbing  slow 
The  barley  reapers  homeward  go. 

Look,    dearest !    how   our  fair  child's 

head 

The  sunset  light  hath  hallowed, 
Where  at  this  olive's  foot  he  lies, 
Uplooking  to  the  tranquil   skies. 

O,  while  beneath  the  fervent  heat 
Thy  sickle  swept  the  bearded  wheat, 
I've  watched,  with  mingled  joy  and 

dread, 
Our  child  upon  his  grassy  bed. 

Joy,  which  the  mother  feels  alone 
Whose  morning  hope  like  mine  had 

flown, 

When  to  her  bosom,  over  blessed, 
A  dearer  life  than  hers  is  pressed. 

Dread,  for  the  future  dark  and  still, 
W7hich   shapes   our   dear  one   to    its 

will; 

Forever  in  his  large  calm  eyes, 
I  read  a  tale  of  sacrifice. — 

The  same  foreboding  awe  I  felt 
When  at  the  altar's  side  we  knelt, 
And  he,  who  as  a  pilgrim  came, 
Rose,   winged  and  glorious,   through 
the  flame. 


I  slept  not,  though  the  wild  bees  made 
A  dreamlike  murmuring  in  the  shade, 
And  on  me  the  warm-fingered  hours 
Pressed  with  the  drowsy  smell  of 
flowers. 

Before  me,  in  a  vision,  rose 

The  hosts  of  Israel's  scornful  foes, — 

Rank   over   rank,   helm,    shield,   and 

spear, 
Glittered  in  noon's  hot  atmosphere. 


I  heard  their  boast,  and  bitter  word, 
Their  mockery  of  the  Hebrew's  Lord, 
I  saw  their  hands  his  ark  assail, 
Their   feet   profane  his  holy  veil. 

No  angel  down  the  blue  space  spoke, 
No  thunder  from  the  still  sky  broke ; 
But  in  their  midst,  in  power  and  awe, 
Like  God's  waked  wrath,  OUR  CHILD 
I  saw ! 


A  child  no  more ! — harsh-browed  and 

strong, 

He  towered  a  giant  in  the  throng, 
And  down  his  shoulders,  broad  and 

bare, 
Swept  the  black  terror  of  his  hair. 

He  raised  his  arm;  he  smote  amain; 
As  round  the  reaper  falls  the  grain, 
So  the  dark  host  around  him  fell, 
So  sank  the  foes  of  Israel! 

Again  I  looked.  In  sunlight  shone 
The  towers  and  domes  of  Askelon. 
Priest,  warrior,  slave,  a  mighty 

crowd, 
Within  her  idol  temple  bowed. 

Yet  one  knelt  not;  stark,  gaunt,  and 

blind, 

His  arms  the  massive  pillars  twined, — • 
An  eyeless  captive,  strong  with  hate, 
He  stood  there  like  an  evil  Fate. 

The  red  shrines  smoked, — the  trum 
pets  pealed : 

He  stooped,  —  the  giant  columns 
reeled, — 

Reeled  tower  and  fane,  sank  arch  and 
wall, 

And  the  thick  dust-cloud  closed  o'er 
all! 

Above    the   shriek,    the     crash,    the 

groan 

Of  the  fallen  pride  of  Askelon, 
I  heard,  sheer  down  the  echoing  sky, 
A  voice  as  of  an  angel  cry, — 


no 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


The  voice  of  him,  who  at  our  side 
Sat  through  the  golden  eventide, — 
Of  him  who,  on  thy  altar's  blaze, 
Rose  fire-winged,    with    his    song   of 
praise. 

"  Rejoice  o'er  Israel's  broken  chain, 
Gray  mother  of  the  mighty  slain ! 
Rejoice  !  "  it  cried,  "  he  vanquisheth  ! 
The  strong  in  life  is  strong  in  death ! 

"To    him    shall    Zorah's     daughters 

raise 
Through   coming  years   their  hymns 

of  praise, 

And  gray  old  men  at  evening  tell 
Of  all  he  wrought  for  Israel. 


"  And  they  who  sing  and  they  who 

hear 

Alike  shall  hold  thy  memory  dear, 
And  pour  their  blessings  on  thy  head, 

0  mother  of  the  mighty  dead !  " 

It    ceased;    and    though   a   sound   I 

heard 
As  if  great  wings  the  still  air  stirred, 

1  only  saw  the  barley  sheaves 
And  hills  half  hid  by  olive  leaves. 

I  bowed  my  face,  in  awe  and  fear, 
On   the    dear    child   who   slumbered 

near. 

"  With  me,  as  with  my  only  son, 
O  God,"  I  said,  "  THY  WILL  BE  DONE  !" 


THE    CITIES    OF    THE    PLAIN. 

"  GET  ye  up  from  the  wrath  of  God's 
terrible  day! 

Ungirded,  unsandalled,  arise  and 
away! 

'T  is  the  vintage  of  blood,  't  is  the  ful 
ness  of  time, 

And  vengeance  shall  gather  the  har 
vest  of  crime !  " 


The  warning  was  spoken;  the  right 
eous  'had  gone, 

And  the  proud  ones  of  Sodom  were 
feasting  alone ; 

All  gay  was  the  banquet;  the  revel 
was  long, 

With  the  pouring  of  wine  and  the 
breathing  of  song. 

'Twas  an  evening  of  beauty;  the  air 

was  perfume, 
The  earth  was  all  greenness,  the  trees 

were  all  bloom ; 
And     softly     the     delicate    viol    was 

heard, 
Like  the  murmur  of  love  or  the  notes 

of  a  bird. 

And  beautiful  maidens  moved  down 
in  the  dance, 

With  the  magic  of  motion  and  sun 
shine  of  glance; 

And  white  arms  wreathed  lightly,  and 
tresses  fell  free 

As  the  plumage  of  birds  in  some 
tropical  tree. 

Where  the  shrines  of  foul  idols  were 

lighted  on  high, 
And  wantonness  tempted  the  lust  of 

the  eye ; 
Midst  rites  of  obsceneness,    strange, 

loathsome,   abhorred, 
The  blasphemer  scoffed  at  the  name 

of  the  Lord. 


Hark!    the   growl  of  the  thunder, — 

the  quaking  of  earth  ! 
Woe,  woe  to  the  worship,  and  woe  to 

the  mirth ! 
The   black   sky   has   opened, — there's 

flame  in  the  air, — 
The   red  arm  of  vengeance  is  lifted 

and  bare! 

Then   the   shriek   of   the    dying  rose 

wild  where  the  song 
And  the  low  tone  of  love  had  been 

whispered  along ; 
For  the  fierce  flames  went  lightly  o'er 

palace  and  bower, 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 


Ill 


Like  the  red  tongues  of  demons,  to 
blast  and  devour ! 

Down, — down  on  the  fallen  the  red 
ruin  rained, 

And  the  reveller  sank  with  his  wine- 
cup  undrained ; 

The  foot  of  the  dancer,  the  music's 
loved  thrill, 

And  the  shout  of  the  laughter  grew 
suddenly  still. 

The  last  throb  of  anguish  was  fear 
fully  given ; 

The  last  eye  glared  forth  in  its  mad 
ness  on  Heaven! 

The  last  groan  of  horror  rose  wildly 
and  vain, 

And  death  brooded  over  the  pride  of 
the  Plain! 


THE  CRUCIFIXION. 

SUNLIGHT  upon  Judaea's  hills! 

And  on  the  waves  of  Galilee, — 
On  Jordan's  stream,  and  on  the  rills 

That   feed   the   dead   and    sleeping 

sea! 
Most   freshly   from   the   green   wood 

springs 

The  light  breeze  on  its  scented  wings ; 
And  gayly  quiver  in  the  sun 
The  cedar  tops  of  Lebanon! 

A   few  more  hours, — a  change  hath 

come! 

The  sky  is  dark  without  a  cloud ! 
The    shouts    of    wrath    and   joy   are 

dumb, 
And  proud  knees   unto    earth   are 

bowed. 

A  change  is  on  the  hill  of  Death, 
The  helmed  watchers  pant  for  breath, 
And  turn  with  wild  and  maniac  eyes 
From  the  dark  scene  of  sacrifice! 

That  Sacrifice !— the  death  of  Him,— 

The  High  and  ever  Holy  One! 
Well  may  the  conscious  Heaven  grow 
dim, 


And  blacken  the  beholding  Sun. 
The  wonted  light  hath  fled  away, 
Night  settles  on  the  middle  day, 
And   earthquake    from   his    caverned 

bed 
Is  waking  with  a  thrill  of  dread! 

The  dead  are  waking  underneath ! 

Their  prison  door  is  rent  away ! 
And,  ghastly  with  the  seal  of  death, 

They  wander  in  the  eye  of  day ! 
The  temple  of  the  Cherubim, 
The  House  of  God  is  cold  and  dim ; 
A  curse  is  on  its  trembling  walls, 
Its  mighty  veil  asunder  falls! 

Well  may  the  cavern-depths  of  Earth 

Be  shaken,  and  her  mountains  nod ; 

Well   may  the    sheeted    dead    come 

forth 

To  gaze  upon  a  suffering  God ! 
Well    may    the    temple-shrine    grow 

dim, 

And  shadows  veil  the  Cherubim, 
When  He,  the  chosen  one  of  Heaven, 
A  sacrifice  for  guilt  is  given! 

And  shall  the  sinful  heart,  alone, 

Behold  unmoved  the  atoning  hour, 
When  Nature  trembles  on  her  throne, 
And  Death  resigns  his  iron  power? 
O,  shall  the  heart, — whose  sinfulness 
Gave  keenness  to  his  sore  distress, 
And  added  to  his  tears  of  blood, — 
Refuse  its  trembling  gratitude! 


THE    STAR    OF    BETHLEHEM. 

WHERE   Time    the    measure    of    his 

hours 
By    changeful    bud     and     blossom 

keeps, 
And,  like  a  young  bride  crowned  with 

flowers, 
Fair   Shiraz  in  her  garden  sleeps; 

Where,  to  her  poet's  turban  stone, 
The  Spring  her  gift  of  flowers  im 
parts, 


112 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Less  sweet  than  those  his  thoughts 

have  sown 
In  the  warm  soil  of  Persian  hearts : 

There   sat  the   stranger,    where    the 
shade 

Of  scattered  date-trees  thinly  lay, 
While  in  the  hot  clear  heaven  delayed 

The  long  and  still  and  weary  day. 

Strange  trees  and   fruits  above  him 

hung, 

Strange  odors  filled  the  sultry  air, 
Strange    birds    upon     the    branches 

swung, 

Strange    insect    voices    murmured 
there. 

And    strange   bright   blossoms  shone 

around, 
Turned  sunward  from  the  shadowy 

bowers, 

As  if  the  Gheber's  soul  had  found 
A  fitting  home  in  Iran's  flowers. 

Whate'er  he  saw,  whate'er  he  heard, 

Awakened  feelings  new  and  sad, — 

No     Christian     garb,    nor     Christian 

word, 

Nor     church      with      Sabbath-bell 
chimes  glad, 

But     Moslem     graves,    with     turban 

stones, 
And  mosque-spires  gleaming  white, 

in  view, 

And  graybeard  Mollahs  in  low  tones 
Chanting      their      Koran      service 
•through. 

The  flowers  which  smiled  on  either 

hand, 
Like  tempting  fiends,  were  such  as 

they 
Which    once,    o'er    all    that    Eastern 

land, 
As  gifts  on  demon  altars  lay. 

As  if  the  burning  eye  of  Baal 
The    servant     of     his     Conqueror 
knew, 


From  skies  which    knew    no    cloudy 

veil, 

The  Sun's  hot  glances  smote  him 
through. 

"  Ah  me !  "  the  lonely  stranger  said, 
"  The  hope  which  led  my  footsteps 

on, 
And  light  from  heaven  around  them 

shed, 

O'er    weary    wave    and    waste,    is 
gone! 

"  Where    are    the    harvest    fields    all 

white, 

For  Truth  to  thrust  her  sickle  in? 
Where  flock  the  souls,  like  doves  in 

flight, 
From  the  dark  hiding-place  of  sin? 

"  A  silent  horror  broods  o'er  all, — 
The  burden  of  a  hateful  spell, — 

The  very   flowers  around  recall 
The  hoary  magi's  rites  of  hell ! 

"And  what  am  I,  o'er  such  a  land 
The  banner  of  the  Cross  to  bear? 

Dear  Lord,  uphold  me  with  thy  hand, 
Thy  strength  with  human  weakness 
share ! " 

He  ceased;  for  at  his  very  feet 

In  mild  rebuke  a  floweret  smiled, — 
How  thrilled    his    sinking    heart  to 

greet 

The    Star-flower    of    the    Virgin's 
child! 

Sown  by  some  wandering  Frank,  it 
drew 

Its  life  from  alien  air  and  earth, 
And  told  to  Paynim  sun  and  dew 

The  story  of  the  Saviour's  birth. 

From     scorching    beams,     in    kindly 

mood, 
The     Persian    plants     its     beauty 

screened, 
And  on   its   pagan   sisterhood, 

In    love,    the     Christian     floweret 
leaned. 


HYMNS. 


With  tears  of  joy  the  wanderer  felt 
The  darkness  of  his  long  despair 

Before  that  hallowed  symbol  melt, 
Which   God's   dear  love   had  nur 
tured  there. 

From  Nature's  face,  that  simple 
flower 

The  lines  of  sin  and  sadness  swept ; 
And  Magian  pile  and  Paynim  bower 

In  peace  like  that  of  Eden  slept. 

Each  Moslem  tomb,  and  cypress  old, 
Looked    holy    through    the    sunset 

air; 

And,  angel-like,  the  Muezzin  told 
From  tower  and  mosque  the  hour 
of  prayer. 

With  cheerful  steps,  the  morrow's 
dawn 

From  Shiraz  saw  the  stranger  part ; 
The  Star-flower  of  the  Virgin-Born 

Still  blooming  in  his  hopeful  heart ! 


HYMNS. 

FROM   THE  FRENCH   OF  LAMARTINE. 

ONE  hymn  more,  O  my  lyre ! 
Praise  to  the  God  above, 
Of  joy  and  life  and  love, 

Sweeping  its   strings  of  fire! 

O,  who  the  speed  of  bird  and  wind 
And  sunbeam's  glance  will  lend  to 

me, 

That,  soaring  upward,  I  may  find 
My     resting-place    and    home    in 

Thee?— 
Thou,  whom   my   soul,   midst   doubt 

and  gloom, 

Adoreth  with  a  fervent  flame, — 
Mysterious  spirit!  unto  whom 
Pertain  nor  sign  nor  name! 

Swiftly  my  lyre's  soft  murmurs  go, 
Up    from    the     cold    and     joyless 
earth, 


Back   to    the    God    who    bade   them 

flow, 
Whose    moving    spirit    sent    them 

forth. 
But  as  for  me,  O  God !  for  me, 

The  lowly  creature  of  thy  will, 
Lingering  and  sad,  I  sigh  to  thee, 
An  earth-bound  pilgrim  still ! 

Was  not  my  spirit  born  to  shine 
Where  yonder  stars  and  suns  are 

glowing? 

To  breathe  with  them  the  light  divine 
From  God's  own  holy  altar  flow 
ing? 

To  be,  indeed,  whate'er.the  soul 
In   dreams   hath    thirsted    for    so 

long,— 

A  portion  of  Heaven's  glorious  whole 
Of  loveliness  and  song? 

O,  watchers  of  the  stars  at  night, 
Who  breathe  their  fire,  as  we  the 

air,— 
Suns,   thunders,    stars,   and   rays    of 

light, 

O,  say,  is  He,  the  Eternal,  there? 

Bend  there  around  his  awful  throne 

The   seraph's    glance,    the    angel's 

knee? 

Or  are  thy  inmost  depths  his  own, 
O  wild  and  mighty  sea? 

Thoughts  of  my  soul,  how  swift  ye 

go! 

Swift  as  the  eagle's  glance  of  fire, 
Or  arrows  from  the  archer's  bow, 

To  the  far  aim  of  your  desire! 
Thought  after  thought,  ye  thronging 

rise, 
Like  spring-doves  from  the  startled 

wood, 

Bearing  like  them  your  sacrifice 
Of  music  unto  God ! 


And  shall  these  thoughts  of  joy  and 
love 

Come  back  again  no  more  to  me? — 
Returning  like  the  Patriarch's  dove 

Wing-weary  from  the  eternal  sea, 
To  bear  within  my  longing  arms 


114 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


The     promise-bough     of     kindlier 

skies, 
Plucked    from    the   green,    immortal 

palms 
Which  shadow  Paradise? 


All-moving   spirit! — freely   forth 

At  thy  command  the  strong  wind 

goes; 
Its  errand  to  the  passive  earth, 

Nor  art  can  stay,  nor  strength  op 
pose, 
Until  it  folds  its  weary  wing 

Once  more  within  the  hand  divine; 
So,  weary  from  its  wandering, 

My  spirit  turns  to  thine ! 


Child  of  the  sea,  the  mountain  stream, 

From  its  dark  caverns,  hurries  on, 

Ceaseless,   by    night    and    morning's 

beam, 
By    evening's    star    and   noontide's 

sun, 
Until  at  last  it  sinks  to  rest, 

O'erwearied,  in  the  waiting  sea, 
And      moans      upon      its      mother's 

breast, — 
So  turns  my  soul  to  Thee! 


O  Thou  who  bid'st  the  torrent  flow, 

Who     lendest     wings      unto      the 

wind, — 
Mover  of  all  things!  where  art  thou? 

O,  whither  shall  I  go  to  find 
The  secret  of  thy  resting-place? 

Is  there  no  holy  wing  for  me, 
That,  sparing,  I  may  search  the  space 

Of  highest  heaven  for  Thee? 


O,  would  I  were  as  free  to  rise 
As  leaves  on   autumn's  whirlwind 

borne, — 
The  arrowy  light  of  sunset  skies, 

Or  sound,  or  ray,  or  star  of  morn, 
Which  melts  in  heaven  at  twilight's 

close, 

Or  aught  which    soars    unchecked 
and  free 


Through  earth  and  Heaven;    that    I 

might  lose 
Myself  in  finding  Thee! 


WHEN  THE  BREATH  DIVINE  is  flowing, 
Zephyr-like  o'er  all  things  going, 
And,  as  the  touch  of  viewless  fingers, 
Softly  on  my  soul  it  lingers, 
Open  to  a  breath  the  lightest, 
Conscious  of  a  touch  the  slightest,— 
As  some  calm,  still  lake,  whereon 
Sinks  the  snowy-bosomed  swan, 
And  the  glistening  water-rings 
Circle  round  her  moving  wings : 
When  my  upward  gaze  is  turning 
Where  the  stars  of  heaven  are  burn 
ing 

Through  the  deep  and  dark  abyss, — 
Flowers  of  midnight's  wilderness, 
Blowing  with  the  evening's  breath 
Sweetly  in  their  Maker's  path: 

When  the  breaking  day  is  flushing 
All  the  east,  and  light  is  gushing 
Upward  through  the  horizon's  haze, 
Sheaf-like,  with  its  thousand  rays, 
Spreading,  until  all  above 
Overflows  with  joy  and  love, 
And  below,  on  earth's  green  bosom, 
All  is  changed  to  light  and  blossom: 

When  my  waking  fancies  over 
Forms  of  brightness  flit  and  hover, 
Holy  as  the  seraphs  are, 
Who  by  Zion's  fountains  wear 
On  their  foreheads,  white  and  broad, 
"  HOLINESS  UNTO  THE  LORD  !  " 
When,  inspired  with  rapture  high, 
It  would  seem  a  single  sigh 
Could  a  world  of  love  create, — 
That  my  life  could  know  no  date, 
And  my  eager  thoughts  could  fill 
Heaven  and  Earth,  o'erflowing  still ! — 

Then,  O  Father!  thou  alone, 
From  the  shadow  of  thy  throne, 
To  the  sighing  of  my  breast 
And  its  rapture  answerest. 
All     my     thoughts,     which,     upward 
winging, 


THE  FEMALE  MARTYR. 


115 


Bathe  where  thy  own  light  is  spring 
ing,— 

All  my  yearnings  to  be  free 
Are  as  echoes  answering  thee! 

Seldom  upon  lips  of  mine, 
Father!  rests  that  name  of  thine, — 
Deep  within  my  inmost  breast, 
In  the   secret  place  of  mind, 
Like  an  awful  presence  shrined, 
Doth  the  dread  idea  rest ! 
Hushed  and  holy  dwells  it  there, — 
Prompter  of  the  silent  prayer, 
Lifting  up  my  spirit's  eye 
And  its  faint,  but  earnest  cry, 
From  its  dark  and  cold  abode, 
Unto  thee,  my  Guide  and  God! 


THE  FEMALE  MARTYR. 

["Mary   G ,    aged  18,  a  "SISTER  OF 

CHARITY,"  died  in  one  of  our  Atlantic  cities, 
during  the  prevalence  of  the  Indian  cholera, 
while  in  voluntary  attendance  upon  the  sick  ] 

"  BRING  out  your  dead  !  "     The  mid 
night  street 

Heard   and  gave   back  the  hoarse, 
low  call; 

Harsh  fell  the  tread  of  hasty  feet,— 

Glanced  through  the  dark  the  coarse 

white  sheet, — 
Her  coffin  and  her  pall. 

"  What— only  one !  "  the  brutal  hack- 
man  said, 

As,  with  an  oath,  he  spurned  away 
the  dead. 

How  sunk  the  inmost  hearts  of  all, 
As  rolled  that  dead-cart  slowly  by, 

With  creaking  wheel  and  harsh  hoof- 
fall  ! 

The  dying  turned  him  to  the  wall, 
To  hear  it  and  to  die! — 

Onward  it  rolled;  while  oft  its  driver 
stayed, 

And  hoarsely  clamored,  "  Ho  ! — bring 
out  vour  dead." 


It  paused  beside  the  burial-place ; 
"  Toss  in  your  load !  " — and  it  was 

done. — 

With  quick  hand  and  averted  face, 
Hastily  to  the  grave's  embrace 
They  cast  them,  one  by  one, — • 
Stranger  and  friend, — the  evil  and  the 

just, 
Together  trodden  in  the  churchyard 

dust! 


And  thou,  young  martyr ! — thou  wast 

there,— 
No  white-robed  sisters  round  thee 

trod,— 

Nor  holy  hymn,  nor  funeral  prayer 
Rose  through  the  damp  and  noisome 

air, 

Fiving  thee  to  thy  God; 
Nor  flower,  nor  cross,  nor  hallowed 

taper  gave 
Grace  to  the  dead,  and  beauty  to  the 

grave ! 


Yet,  gentle  sufferer!  there  shall  be, 
In  every  heart  of  kindly  feeling, 
A  rite  as  holy  paid  to  thee 
As  if  beneath  the  convent-tree 

Thy  sisterhood  were  kneeling, 
At  vesper  hours,  like  sorrowing  an 
gels,  keeping 

Their  tearful  watch  around  thy  place 
of  sleeping. 


For  thou  wast  one  in  whom  the  light 
Of  Heaven's  own  love  was  kindled 
well. 

Enduring  with  a  martyr's  might, 

Through  weary  day  and  wakeful  night 
Far  more  than  words  may  tell: 

Gentle,  and  meek,  and  lowly,  and  un 
known, — 

Thy  mercies  measured  by  thy  God 
alone ! 


Where  manly  hearts  were  failing, — 

where 

The  throngful  street  grew  foul  with 
death, 


116 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


O     high-souled    martyr! — thou    wast 
there, 

Inhaling,  from  the  loathsome  air, 
Poison    with   every   breath. 

Yet    shrinking    not    from    offices    of 
dread 

For  the  wrung  dying,  and  the  uncon 
scious  dead. 

And,  where  the  sickly  taper  shed 
Its    light    through    vapors,     damp, 

confined, 

Hushed  as  a  seraph's  fell  thy  tread, — 
A  new  Electra  by  the  bed 

Of  suffering  human-kind! 
Pointing  the  spirit,  in  its  dark  dismay, 
To  that  pure  hope  which  fadeth  not 
away. 

Innocent  teacher  of  the  high 

And  holy  mysteries  of  Heaven! 
How  turned  to  thee  each  glazing  eye, 
In  mute  and  awful  sympathy, 

As  thy  low  prayers  were  given; 
And  the  o'er-hovering  Spoiler  wore, 

the  while, 

An    angel's    features, — a    deliverer's 
smile ! 

A  blessed  task! — and  worthy  one 
Who,  turning  from  the  world,  as 

thou, 

Before  life's  pathway  had  begun 
To  leave  its  spring-time  flower  and 

sun, 

Had  sealed  her  early  vow; 
Giving  to   God  her  beauty  and  her 
youth, 


Her  pure  affections  and  her  guileless 
truth. 


Earth  may  not  claim  thee.     Nothing 

here 

Could  be  for  thee  a  meet  reward; 
Thine  is  a  treasure  far  more  dear, — 
Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  nor  the  ear 

Of  living  mortal  heard, — 
The    joys     prepared, — the     promised 

bliss  above, — 
The  holy  presence  of  Eternal  Love! 


Sleep  on  in  peace.    The  earth  has  not 

A  nobler  name  than  thine  shall  be. 

The     deeds     by     martial     manhood 

wrought, 
The  lofty  energies  of  thought, 

The  fire  of  poesy, — 
These  have  but  frail  and  fading  hon 
ors  ; — thine 
Shall  Time  unto  Eternity  consign. 


Yea,  and  when  thrones  shall  crumble 

down, 
And   human   pride    and    grandeur 

fall,— 

The  herald's  line  of  long  renown,— 
The  mitre  and  the  kingly  crown, — 

Perishing  glories  all ! 
The  pure   devotion  of  thy  generous 

heart 
Shall  live  in  Heaven,  of  which  it  was 

a  part. 


THE  FROST  SPIRIT. 

HE  comes, — h?  comes, — the  Frost  Spirit  comes !     You  may  trace  his  footsteps 

now 

On  the  naked  woods  and  the  blasted  fields  and  the  brown  hill's  withered  brow. 
He  has  smitten  the  leaves  of  the  gray  old  trees  where  their  pleasant  greei 

came  forth, 
And  the  winds,  which  follow  wrherever  he  goes,  have  shaken  them  down  to 

earth. 

He  comes, — he  comes, — the  Frost  Spirit  comes  ! — from  the  frozen  Labrador, — 
From  the  icy  bridge  of  the  Northern  seas,  which  the  white  bear  wanders  o'er, — 


THE  VAUDOIS  TEACHER.  117 

Where  the  fisherman's  sail  is  stiff  with  ice,  and  the  luckless  forms  below 
In  the  sunless  cold  of  the  lingering  night  into  marble  statues  grow ! 

He  comes, — he  conies, — the  Frost  Spirit  comes! — on  the  rushing  Northern 

blast, 

And  the  dark  Norwegian  pines  have  bowed  as  his  fearful  breath  went  past. 
With  an  unscorched  wing  he  has  hurried  on,  where  the  fires  of  Hecla  glow 
On  the  darkly  beautiful  sky  above  and  the  ancient  ice  below. 

He  comes, — he  comes,; — the  Frost  Spirit  comes  ! — and  the  quiet  lake  shall  feel 

The  torpid  touch  of  his  glazing  breath,  and  ring  to  the  skater's  heel ; 

And  the  streams  which  danced  on  the  broken  rocks,  or  sang  to  the  leaning 

grass, 
Shall  bow  again  to  their  winter  chain,  and  in  mournful  silence  pass. 

He  comes, — he  comes, — the  Frost  Spirit  comes  ! — let  us  meet  him  as  we  may, 
And  turn  with  the  light  of  the  parlor-fire  his  evil  power  away; 
And  gather  closer  the  circle  round,  when  that  fire-light  dances  high, 
And  laugh  at  the  shriek  of  the  baffled  Fiend  as  his  sounding  wing  goes  by ! 


THE  VAUDOIS  TEACHER. 

"  O  LADY  fair,  these  silks  of  mine  are  beautiful  and  rare, — 

The  richest  web  of  the  Indian  loom,  which  beauty's  queen  might  wear ; 

And  my  pearls  are  pure  as  thy  own  fair  neck,  with  whose  radiant  light  they 

vie; 
I  have  brought  them  with  me  a  weary  way, — will  my  gentle  lady  buy  ?  " 

And  the  lady  smiled  on  the  worn  old  man  through  the  dark  and  clustering 

curls 

Which  veiled  her  brow  as  she  bent  to  view  his  silks  and  glittering  pearls ; 
And  she  placed  their  price  in  the  old  man's  hand,  and  lightly  turned  away, 
But  she  paused  at  the  wanderer's  earnest  call, — "  My  gentle  lady,  stay !  " 

"  O  lady  fair,  I  have  yet  a  gem  which  a  purer  lustre  flings, 
Than  the  diamond  flash  of  the  jewelled  crown  on  the  lofty  brow  of  kings, — 
A  wonderful  pearl  of  exceeding  price,  whose  virtue  shall  not  decay, 
Whose  light  shall  be  as  a  spell  to  thee  and  a  blessing  on  thy  way!  "     ' 

The  lady  glanced  at  the  mirroring  steel  where  her  form  of  grace  was  seen, 
Where  her  eye  shone  clear,  and  her  dark  locks  waved  their  clasping  pearls 

between ; 

"  Bring  forth  thy  pearl  of  exceeding  worth,  thou  traveller  gray  and  old, — 
And  name  the  price  of  thy  precious  gem,  and  my  page  shall  count  thy  gold." 

The  cloud  went  off  from  the  pilgrim's  brow,  as  a  small  and  meagre  book, 
Unchased  with  gold  or  gem  of  cost,  from  his  folding  robe  he  took ! 
"  Here,  lady  fair,  is  the  pearl  of  price,'  may  it  prove  as  such  to  thee ! 
Nay — keep  thy  gold — I  ask  it  not,  for  the  word  of  God  is  free !  " 


118 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


The  hoary  traveller  went  his  way,  but  the  gift  he  left  behind 
Hath  had  its  pure  and  perfect  work  on  that  high-born  maiden's  mind, 
And  she  hath  turned  from  the  pride  of  sin  to  the  lowliness  of  truth, 
And  given  her  human  heart  to  God  in  its  beautiful  hour  of  youth ! 

And  she  hath  left  the  gray  old  halls,  where  an  evil  faith  had  power, 
The  courtly  knights  of  her  father's  train,  and  the  maidens  of  her  bower 
And  she  hath  gone  to  the  Vaudois  vales  by  lordly  feet  untrod, 
Where  the  poor  and  needy  of  earth  are  rich  in  the  perfect  love  of  God ! 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CHRIS 
TIAN. 

NOT  always  as  the  whirlwind's  rush 

On  Horeb's  mount  of  fear, 
Not  always  as  the  burning  bush 

To   Midian's    shepherd  seer, 
Nor  as  the  awful  voice  which  came 

To  Israel's  prophet  bards, 
Nor  as  the  tongues  of  cloven  flame, 

Nor  gift  of  fearful  words, — 

Not  always  thus,  with  outward  sign 

Of  fire  or  voice  from  Heaven, 
The  message  of  a  truth  divine, 

The  call  of  God  is  given! 
Awaking  in  the  human  heart 

Love  for  the  true  and  right, — 
Zeal  for  the  Christian's  "  better  part," 

Strength   for  the  Christian's   fight. 

Nor  unto  manhood's  heart  alone 

The   holy   influence   steals : 
Warm  with  a  rapture  not  its  own, 

The  heart  of  woman  feels ! 
As  she  who  by  Samaria's  wall 

The  Saviour's  errand  sought, — 
As  those  who  with  the  fervent  Paul 

And  meek  Aquila  wrought: 

Or  those  meek  ones  whose  martyr 
dom 

Rome's  gathered  grandeur  saw : 
Or  those  who  in  their  Alpine  home 

Braved  the  Crusader's  war, 
When  the  green  Vaudois,  trembling, 
heard, 

Through  all  its  vales  of  death, 
The  martyr's  song  of  triumph  poured 

From  woman's  failing  breath. 


And  gently,  by  a  thousand  things 

Which  o'er  our  spirits  pass, 
Like    breezes    o'er    the     harp's    fine 
strings, 

Or  vapors  o'er  a  glass, 
Leaving  their  token  strange  and  new 

Of  music  or  of  shade, 
The  summons  to  the  right  and  true 

And  merciful  is  made. 

O,  then,  if  gleams  of  truth  and  light 

Flash  o'er  thy  waiting  mind, 
Unfolding  to  thy  mental  sight 

The  wants  of  human-kind; 
If,  brooding  over  human  grief, 

The   earnest  wish   is   known 
To  soothe  and  gladden  with  relief 

An  anguish  not  thine  own; 

Though  heralded  with  naught  of  fear, 

Or  outward  sign  or  show; 
Though  only  to  the  inward  ear 

It  whispers  soft  and  low; 
Though  dropping,  as  the  manna  fell, 

Unseen,  yet  from  above, 
Noiseless  as  dew-fall,  heed  it  well, — 

Thy  Father's  call  of  love! 


MY  SOUL  AND  I. 

STAND  still,  my  soul,  in  the  silent  dark 

I  would  question  thee, 
Alone  in  the  shadow  drear  and  stark 

With  God  and  me! 

What,  my  soul,  was  thy  errand  here? 

Was  it  mirth  or  ease, 
Or  heaping  up  dust  from  year  to  year? 

"  Nay,  none  of  these  !  " 


MY  SOUL  AND  I. 


119 


Speak,  soul,  aright  in  His  holy  sight 

Whose  eye  looks  still 
And    steadily    on    thee    through    the 
night : 

"  To  do  his  will !  " 

What   hast    thou    done,   O    soul  of 

mine, 

That  thou  tremblest  so  ? — 
Hast  thou  wrought  his  task,  and  kept 

the  line 
He  bade  thee  go? 

What,  silent  all !— art  sad  of  cheer? 

Art  fearful  now? 

When  God  seemed  far  and  men  were 
near, 

How  brave  wert  thou ! 

Aha !  thou  tremblest ! — well  I  see 

Thou  'rt  craven  grown. 
Is  it  so  hard  with  God  and  me 

To  stand  alone? — 

Summon  thy  sunshine  bravery  back, 

O  wretched  sprite ! 

Let  me  hear  thy  voice  through  this 
deep  and  black 

Abysmal  night. 

What  hast  thou  wrought  for   Right 

and  Truth, 
For  God  and  Man, 
From    the   golden    hours    of   bright- 
eyed  youth 
To  life's  mid  span? 

Ah,  soul  of  mine,  thy  tones  I  hear, 

But  weak  and  low, 
Like  far  sad  murmurs  on  my  ear 

They  come  and  go. 

"  I    have    wrestled    stoutly    with    the 

Wrong, 

And  borne  the  Right 
From    beneath    the    footfall    of    the 

throng 
To  life  and  light. 

"Wherever  Freedom  shivered  a  chain, 
God  speed,  quoth  I; 


To   Error  amidst  her  shouting  train 
I  gave  the  lie." 

Ah,  soul  of  mine!  ah,  soul  of  mine! 

Thy  deeds  are  well: 
Were  they  wrought  for  Truth's  sake 
or  for  thine? 

My  soul,  pray  tell. 

"Of  all    the    work    my    hand    hath 
wrought 

Beneath  the   sky, 
Save  a  place  in  kindly  human  thought, 

No  gain  have  I." 

Go  to,  go  to ! — for  thy  very  self 

Thy  deeds  were  done: 
Thou  for  fame,  the  miser  for  pelf, 

Your  end  is  one ! 

And  where    art    thou  going,  soul  of 
mine? 

Canst  see  the  end? 
And  whither  this  troubled  life  of  thine 

Evermore  doth  tend? 

What  daunts  thee  now?— what  shakes 
thee  so? 

My  sad  soul  say. 
"  I  see  a  cloud  like  a  curtain  low 

Hang  o'er  my  way. 

"  Whither  I   go   I   cannot  tell : 
That  cloud  hangs  black, 

High  as  the  heaven  and  deep  as  hell 
Across  my  track. 

"  I  see  its  shadow  coldly  enwrap 

The  souls  before. 
Sadly  they  enter  it,  step  by  step, 

To  return  no  more. 

"  They   shrink,    they    shudder,    dear 

God !  they  kneel 
To  thee  in  prayer. 
They  shut  their  eyes  on  the  cloud,  but 

feel 
That  it  still  is  there. 

'  In  vain  they  turn  from  the  dread 
Before 


120 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


To  the  Known  and  Gone; 
For  while  gazing  behind  them  ever 
more 
Their  feet  glide  on. 

"  Yet,  at  times,  I  see  upon  sweet  pale 
faces 

A  light  begin 
To  tremble,  as  if  from  holy  places 

And  shrines  within. 

"And  at  times  methinks  their  cold 

lips  move 

With  hymn  and  prayer, 
As  if  somewhat  of  awe,  but  more  of 

love 
And  hope  were  there. 

"  I  call  on  the  souls  who  have  left  the 
light 

To  reveal  their  lot; 
I  bend  mine  ear  to  that  wall  of  night, 

And  they  answer  not. 

"  But  I  hear  around  me  sighs  of  pain 

And  the  cry  of  fear, 
And  a  sound  like  the  slow  sad  drop 
ping  of  rain, 

Each  drop  a  tear ! 

"Ah,  the  cloud  is  dark,  and  day  by 
day 

I  am  moving  thither: 
I  must  pass  beneath  it  on  my  way — 

God  pity  me! — WHITHER?" 

Ah,  soul  of  mine!  so  brave  and  wise 

In   the   life-storm   loud, 
Fronting  so  calmly  all  human  eyes 

In  the  sunlit  crowd! 

Now  standing  apart  with  God  and  me 

Thou  art  weakness  all, 
Gazing  vainly  after  the  things  to  be 

Through  Death's   dread  wall. 

But  never  for  this,  never  for  this 

Was  thy  being  lent; 
For  the  craven's  fear  is  but  selfish 
ness, 

Like  his  merriment. 


Folly  and  Fear  are  sisters  twain: 

One  closing  her  eyes, 
The  other  peopling  the  dark  inane 

With  spectral  lies. 

Know  well,  my  soul,  God's  hand  con 
trols 

Whate'er  thou  fearest;_ 
Round  him  in  calmest  music  rolls 

Whate'er  thou  hearest. 

What  to  thee  is  shadow,  to  him  is 
day, 

And  the  end  he  knoweth, 
And  not  on  a  blind  and  aimless  way 

The  spirit  goeth. 

Man  sees  no  future, — a  phantom  show 

Is   alone   before  him: 
Past  Time  is  dead,  and  the  grasses 
grow, 

And  flowers  bloom  o'er  him. 

Nothing  before,  nothing  behind; 

The  steps  of  Faith 
Fall  on  the  seeming  void,  and  find 

The  rock  beneath. 


The  Present,  the  Present  is  all  thou 
hast 

For   thy   sure  possessing; 
Like  the  patriarch's  angel  hold  it  fast 

Till  it  gives  its  blessing. 

Why  fear  the  night  ?  why  shrink  from 

Death, 

That  phantom  wan? 
There  is  nothing  in  heaven  or  earth 

beneath 
Save  God  and  man. 

Peopling  the  shadows  we  turn  from 
Him 

And  from  one  another; 
All  is  spectral  and  vague  and  dim 

Save  God  and  our  brother ! 

Like  warp  and  woof  all  destinies 
Are  woven  fast, 


TO  A  FRIEND. 


121 


Linked  in  sympathy  like  the  keys 
Of  an  organ  vast. 

Pluck   one   thread,  and   the   web   ye 

mar; 

Break  but  one 
Of  a  thousand  keys,  and  the  paining 

jar 
Through  all  will  run. 

O  restless  spirit!  wherefore  strain 

Beyond  thy  sphere? 
Heaven  and  hell,  with  their  joy  and 
pain, 

Are  now  and  here. 

Back  to  thyself  is  measured  well 

All  thou  hast  given; 
Thy  neighbor's  wrong  is  thy  present 
hell, 

His  bliss,  thy  heaven. 

And   in   life,   in   death,   in  dark   and 

light, 

All  are  in  God's  care ; 
Sound  the  black  abyss,  pierce  the  deep 

of  night, 
And  he  is  there! 

All  which  is  real  now  remaineth, 

And  fadeth  never: 
The  hand  which  upholds  it  now  sus- 
taineth 

The  soul  forever. 

Leaning  on  him,  make  with  reverent 

meakness 

His  own  thy  will, 
And  with  strength   from   Him   shall 

thy  utter  weakness 
Life's  task  fulfil; 

And  that  cloud  itself,  which  now  be 
fore  thee 

Lies  dark  in  view, 
Shall  with  beams  of  light  from  the 

inner  glory 
Be  stricken  through. 

And  like  meadow  mist  through  au 
tumn's  dawn 
Uprolling  thin, 


Its  thickest  folds  when    about    thee 

drawn 
Let  sunlight  in. 

Then  of  what  is  to  be,  and  of  what  is 
done, 

Why  queriest  thou? — 
The  past  and  the  time  to  be  are  one, 

And  both  are  NOW! 


TO   A    FRIEND, 

ON    HER    RETURN    FROM     EUROPE. 

How  smiled  the  land  of  France 
Under  thy  blue  eye's  glance, 

Light-hearted  rover! 
Old  walls  of  chateaux  gray, 
Towers   of   an   early   day, 
Which  the  Three  Colors  play 

Flauntingly  over. 

Now  midst  the  brilliant  train 
Thronging  the  banks  of  Seine : 

Now  midst  the  splendor 
Of  the  wild  Alpine  range, 
Waking  with  change  on  change 
Thoughts  in  thy  young  heart  strange 

Lovely,  and  tender. 

Vales,  soft  Elysian, 
Like  those  in  the  vision 

Of  Mirza,  when,  dreaming, 
He  saw  the  long  hollow  dell, 
Touched  by  the  prophet's  spell, 
Into  an  ocean  swell 

With  its  isles  teeming. 

Cliffs  wrapped  in  snows  of  years, 
Splintering  with  icy  spears 

Autumn's  blue  heaven: 
Loose  rock  and  frozen  slide, 
Hung  on  the  mountain-side, 
Waiting  their  hour  to  glide 

Downward,  storm-driven ! 

Rhine  stream,  by  castle  old, 
Baron's  and  robber's  hold, 
Peacefully  flowing; 


122 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Sweeping  through  vineyards  green, 
Or  where  the  cliffs  are  seen 
O'er  the  broad  wave  between 
Grim  shadows  throwing. 

Or,  where  St.  Peter's  dome 
Swells  o'er  eternal  Rome, 

-Vast,  dim,  and  solemn, — 
Hymns  ever  chanting  low,— 
Censers  swung  to  and  fro, — 
Sable  stoles  sweeping  slow 
Cornice  and  column! 

0,  as  from  each  and  all 
Will  there  not  voices  call 

Evermore  back  again? 
In  the  mind's  gallery 
Wilt  thou  not  always  see 
Dim  phantoms  beckon  thee 

O'er  that  old  track  again? 

New  forms  thy  presence  haunt, — 
New  voices  softly  chant, — 

New  faces  greet  thee ! — 
Pilgrims  from  many  a  shrine 
Hallowed  by  poet's  line, 
At  memory's  magic  sign, 

Rising  to  meet  thee. 

And  when  such  visions  come 
Unto  thy  olden  home, 

Will  they  not  waken 
Deep  thoughts  of  Him  whose  hand 
Led  thee  o'er  sea  and  land 
Back  to  the  household  band 

Whence  thou  wast  taken? 


While,  at  the  sunset  time, 
Swells  the  cathedral's  chime, 

Yet,  in  thy  dreaming, 
While  to  thy  spirit's  eye 
Yet  the  vast  mountains  lie 
Piled  in  the  Switzer's  sky, 

Icy  and  gleaming: 

Prompter  of   silent  prayer, 
Be  the  wild  picture  there 

In  the  mind's  chamber, 
And,  through  each  coming  day 
Him  who,  as  staff  and  stay, 


Watched  o'er  thy  wandering  way, 
Freshly  remember. 

So,  when  the  call  shall  be 
Soon  or  late  unto  thee, 

As  to  all  given, 
Still  may  that  picture  live, 
All  its  fair  forms  survive, 
And  to  thy  spirit  give 

Gladness  in  Heaven! 


THE  ANGEL  OF  PATIENCE. 

A    FREE  PARAPHRASE   OF   THE 
GERMAN. 

To  weary  hearts,  to  mourning  homes, 
God's   meekest  Angel   gently  conies : 
No  power  has  he  to  banish  pain, 
Or  give  us  back  our  lost  again; 
And  yet  in  tenderest  love,  our  dear 
And  Heavenly  Father  sends  him  here. 

There's  quiet  in  that  Angel's  glance, 
There's  rest  in  his  still  countenance! 
He  mocks  no  grief  with  idle  cheer, 
Nor  wounds  with  words  the  mourn 
er's  ear; 

But  ills  and  woes  he  may  not  cure 
He  kindly  trains  us  to  endure. 

Angel  of  Patience !  sent  to  calm 
Our     feverish     brows    with    cooling 

palm ; 

To  lay  the  storms  of  hope  and  fear, 
And  reconcile  life's  smile  and  tear ; 
The  throbs  of  wounded  pride  to  still, 
And  make  our  own  our  Father's  will ! 

O  thou  who  mournest  on  thy  way, 
With  longings  for  the  close  of  day ; 
He  walks  with  thee,  that  Angel  kind, 
And  gently  whispers,  "  Be  resigned : 
Bear  up,  bear  on,  the  end  shall  tell 
The   dear  Lord   ordereth   all   things 
well!" 


POLLEN. 


123 


POLLEN. 


ON  READING  HIS  ESSAY  ON  THE 
"FUTURE  STATE." 

FRIEND  of  my  soul!— as  with  moist 
eye 

I  look  up  from  this  page  of  thine, 
Is  it  a  dream  that  thou  art  nigh, 

Thy  mild  face  gazing  into   mine? 

That  presence  seems  before  me  now, 
A  placid  heaven  of  sweet  moonrise, 

When,  dew-like,  on  the  earth  below 
Descends  the  quiet  of  the  skies. 

The  calm  brow  through  the  parted 

hair, 
The  gentle    lips    which    knew    no 

guile, 
Softening   the    blue   eye's    thoughtful 

care 

With   the  bland    beauty    of    their 
smile. 

Ah    me!— at    times    that    last    dread 

scene 
Of    Frost   and   Fire   and   moaning 

Sea, 

Will  cast  its  shade  of  doubt  between 
The  failing  eyes  of  Faith  and  thee. 

Yet,  lingering  o'er  thy  charmed  page, 
Where  through  the  twilight  air  of 

earth, 
Alike  enthusiast  and  sage, 

Prophet    and    bard,    thou    gazest 
forth ; 

Lifting  the  Future's  solemn  veil ; 

The  reaching  of  a  mortal  hand 
To  put  aside  the  cold  and  pale 

Cloud-curtains  of  the  Unseen  Land ; 

In  thoughts  which  answer  to  my  own, 
In  words  which  reach  my  inward 

ear, 

Like  whispers    from    the    void    Un 
known, 
I  feel  thy  living  presence  here. 


The  waves  which  lull  thy  body's  rest, 
The    dust     thy    pilgrim     footsteps 

trod, 

Unwasted,  through  each  change,  at 
test 
The  fixed  economy  of  God. 


Shall  these  poor  elements  outlive 
The  mind   whose  kingly  will  they 
wrought  ? 

Their  gross  unconsciousness  survive 
Thy  godlike  energy  of  thought? 

THOU  LIVEST,  FOLLEN  ! — not  in  vain 
Hath  thy  fine  spirit  meekly  borne 

The  burthen  of  Life's  cross  of  pain, 
And  the  thorned  crown  of  suffering 
worn. 


O,     while     Life's     solemn     mystery 

glooms 

Around  us  like  a  dungeon's  wall, — 
Silent    earth's     pale     and     crowded 

tombs, 

Silent  the  heaven  which  bends  o'er 
all!— 

While    day  by   day   our   loved   ones 

glide 

In  spectral  silence,  hushed  and  lone, 
To  the  cold  shadows  which  divide 
The    living    from    the  dread    Un 
known  ; 

While  even  on  the  closing  eye, 
And    on    the    lip    which    moves    in 
vain, 

The  seals  of  that  stern  mystery 
Their  undiscovered  trust  retain; — 

And  only  midst  the  gloom  of  death, 
Its  mournful  doubts  and  haunting 

fears, 
Two   pale,   sweet   angels,    Hope  and 

Faith, 

Smile   dimly   on  us  through   their 
tears ; 

T  is  something  to  a  heart  like  mine 
To  think  of  thee  as  living  yet ; 


124 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


To  feel  that  such  a  light  as  thine 
Could  not  in  utter  darkness  set. 


Less  dreary  seems  the  untried  way 
Since  thou  hast  left  thy  footprints 
there, 

And  beams  of  mournful  beauty  play 
Round  the  sad  Angel's  sable  hair. 

Oh ! — at  this  hour  when  half  the  sky 
Is  glorious  with  its  evening  light, 

And  fair  broad  fields  of  summer  lie 
Hung  o'er  with  greenness  in  my 
sight ; 

While  through  these  elm-boughs  wet 

with  rain 

The  sunset's  golden  walls  are  seen, 
With  clover-bloom  and  yellow  grain 
And  wood-draped  hill  and  stream 
between ; 

I  long  to  know  if  scenes  like  this 
Are  hidden  from  an  angel's  eyes : 

If  earth's  familiar  loveliness 

Haunts    not   thy   heaven's    serener 
skies. 


For  sweetly  here  upon  thee  grew 
The  lesson  which  that  beauty  gave, 

The  ideal  of  the  Pure  and  True 
In  earth  and  sky  and  gliding  wave. 

And  it  may  be  that  all  which  lends 
The  soul  an  upward  impulse  here, 

With   a   diviner  beauty  blends, 
And  greets  us  in  a  holier  sphere. 

Through     groves     where      blighting 

never  fell 
The  humbler  flowers  of  earth  may 

twine ; 

And     simple    draughts    from    child 
hood's  well 
Blend  with  the  angel-tasted  wine. 

But  be  the  prying  vision  veiled, 

And  let  the  seeking  lips  be  dumb, — 
Where  even  seraph  eyes  have  failed 


Shall    mortal    blindness      seek    to 
come? 

We  only  know  that  thou  hast  gone, 

And  that  the  same  returnless   tide 

Which  bore  thee  from  us  still  glides 

on, 

And  we  who  mourn  thee  with   it 
glide. 

On  all  thou  lookest  we  shall  look, 
And  to  our  gaze  erelong  shall  turn 

That  page  of  God's  mysterious  book 
We   so   much   wish,   yet    dread    to 
learn. 

With  Him,  before  whose  awful  power 
Thy      spirit      bent     its      trembling 

knee ; — 

Who,    in   the    silent    greeting   flower, 
And    forest    leaf,     looked    out    on 
thee,— 

We  leave  thee,  with  a  trust   serene, 
Which     Time,     nor     Change,     nor 

Death  can  move, 
While    with    thy    childlike   faith   we 

lean, 

On    Him    whose    dearest  name  is 
Love! 


TO  THE  REFORMERS  OF 
ENGLAND. 

GOD  bless  ye,  brothers !— in  the  fight 
Ye're  waging  now,  ye  cannot  fail, 

For  better  is  your  sense  of  right 
Than  king-craft's  triple  mail. 

Than  tyrant's  law,  or  bigot's  ban, 
More  mighty  is  your  simplest  word; 

The  free  heart  of  an  honest  man 
Than  crosier  or  the  sword. 

Go, — let  your  bloated  Church  rehearse 
The  lesson  it  has  learned  so  well; 

It  moves  not  with  its  prayer  or  curse 
The  gates  of  heaven  or  hell. 


THE  QUAKER  OF  THE  OLDEN  TIME. 


125 


Let  the  State  scaffold  rise  again, — 
Did    Freedom    die    when    Russell 
died? 

Forget  ye  how  the  blood  of  Vane 
From  earth's  green  bosom  cried? 

The  great  hearts  of  your  olden  time 
Are   beating    with    you,    full    and 
strong 

All   holy  memories  and  sublime 
And  glorious  round  ye  throng. 

The  bluff,  bold  men  of  Runnymede 
Are  with  ye  still  in  times  like  these; 

The  shades  of  England's  mighty  dead, 
Your  cloud  of  witnesses ! 

The  truths  ye  urge  are  borne  abroad 
By  every  wind  and  every  tide; 

The  voice  of  Nature  and  of  God 
Speaks  out  upon  your  side. 

The  weapons  which  your  hands  have 

found 
•Are  those  which  Heaven  itself  has 

wrought, 

Light,  Truth,  and  Love ; — your  battle 
ground 
The  free,  broad  field  of  Thought. 

No  partial,  selfish  purpose  breaks 
The  simple  beauty  of  your  plan, 

Nor  lie  from  throne  or  altar  shakes 
Your  steady  faith  in  man. 

The  languid  pulse  of  England  starts 
And  bounds  beneath  your  words  of 
power, 

The  beating  of  her  million  hearts 
Is  with  you  at  this  hour ! 

O  ye  who,  with  undoubting  eyes, 
Through  present  cloud  and  gather 
ing  storm, 

Behold  the  span  of  Freedom's  skies, 
And  sunshine  soft  and  warm, — 

Press  bravely  onward ! — not   in   vain 
Your   generous    trust     in    human 
kind  ; 
The  good  which  bloodshed  could  not 

gain 
Your  peaceful  zeal  shall  find. 


Press  on! — the  triumph  shall  be  won 
Of  common  rights  and  equal  laws, 

The  glorious  dream  of  Harrington, 
And  Sidney's  good  old  cause. 

Blessing  the  cotter  and  the  crown, 
Sweetening  worn  Labor's  bitter  cup ; 

And,  plucking  not  the  highest  down, 
Lifting  the  lowest  up. 

Press    on! — and    we    who     may   not 
share 

The  toil  or  glory  of  your  fight 
May  ask,  at  least,  in  earnest  prayer, 

God's  blessing  on  the   right! 


THE  QUAKER  OF  THE  OLDEN 
TIME. 

THE  Quaker  of  the  olden  time! — 

How  calm   and  firm  and  true, 
Unspotted  by  its  wrong  and  crime, 

He  walked  the  dark  earth  through. 
The  lust  of  power,  the  love  of  gain, 

The  thousand  lures  of  sin 
Around  him,  had  no  power  to  stain 

The  purity  within. 

With  that  deep  insight  which  detects 

All  great  things  in  the  small, 
And  knows  how  each  man's  life  af 
fects 

The  spiritual  life  of  all, 
He  walked  by  faith  and  not  by  sight, 

By  love  and  not  by  law ; 
The  presence  of  the  wrong  or  right 

He  rather  felt  than  saw. 

He  felt  that  wrong  with  wrong  par 
takes, 

That  nothing  stands  alone, 
That  whoso  gives  the  motive,  makes 

His  brother's  sin  his  own. 
And,  pausing  not  for  doubtful  choice 

Of  evils  great  or  small, 
He  listened  to  that  inward  voice 

Which  called  away  from  all. 

0  spirit  of  that  early  day, 
So  pure  and  strong  and  true, 

Be  with  us  in  the  narrow  way 
Our  faithful  fathers  knew. 


126 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Give  strength  the  evil  to  forsake, 
The  cross  of  Truth  to  bear, 

And  love  and  reverent  fear  to  make 
Our  daily  lives  a  prayer! 


THE  REFORMER. 

ALL  grim  and  soiled  and  brown  with 

tan, 

I  saw  a  Strong  One,  in  his  wrath, 
Smiting  the  godless  shrines  of  man 
Along  his  path. 

The   Church,   beneath   her   trembling 

dome 

Essayed  in  vain  her  ghostly  charm : 
Wealth  shook  within  his  gilded  home 
With  strange  alarm. 

Fraud  from  his  secret  chambers  fled 

Before  the  sunlight  bursting  in: 
Sloth  drew  her  pillow  o'er  her  head 
To  drown  the  din. 

"  Spare,"    Art    implored,    "  yon    holy 

pile; 
That  grand,  old,  time-worn  turret 

spare  " ; 

Meek  Reverence,  kneeling  in  the  aisle, 
Cried  out,  "  Forbear !  " 

Gray-bearded    Use,    who,    deaf    and 

blind, 
Groped    for    his     old     accustomed 

stone, 

Leaned  on  his  staff,  and  wept  to  find 
His  seat  o'erthrown. 

Young  Romance   raised  his    dreamy 

eyes, 

O'erhung  with  paly  locks  of  gold, — 
"  Why  smite,"  he  asked  in  sad  sur 
prise, 
"The  fair,  the  old?" 

Yet    louder  rang    the    Strong    One's 

stroke, 

Yet  nearer  flashed  his  axe's  gleam ; 
Shuddering  and  sick  of  heart  I  woke, 
As  from  a  dream. 


looked :     aside 
rolled,- - 


the      dust-cloud 


The    Waster    seemed    the    Builder 

too; 

Up  springing  from  the  ruined  Old 
I  saw  the  New. 

'T  was  but  the  ruin  of  the  bad, — 

The  wasting  of  the  wrong  and  ill; 
Whate'er  of  good  the  old  time  had 
Was  living  still. 

Calm  grew  the  brows  of  him  I  feared ; 
The  frown  which  awed  me  passed 

away, 

And  left  behind  a  smile  which  cheered 
Like  breaking  day. 

The  grain  grew  green  on  battle-plains, 
O'er   swarded  war-mounds   grazed 

the  cow ; 
The    slave    stood    forging    from    his 

chains 
The  spade  and  plough. 

Where  frowned  the  fort,  pavilions  gay 
And    cottage    windows,  flower-en 
twined, 

Looked  out  upon  the  peaceful  bay 
And  hills  behind. 

Through    vine-wreathed     cups     with 

wine  once  red, 

The  lights  on  brimming  crystal  fell, 
Drawn,    sparkling,    from  .  the    rivulet 

head 
And  mossy  well. 

Through  prison  walls,  like  Heaven 
sent  hope, 
Fresh  breezes  blew,  and  sunbeams 

strayed, 

And  with  the  idle  gallows-rope 
The  young  child  played. 

Where  the  doomed  victim  in  his  cell 

Had  counted  o'er  the  weary  hours, 

Glad   school-girls,   answering   to    the 

bell, 
Came  crowned  with  flowers. 

Grown  wiser  for  the  lesson  given, 

I  fear  no  longer,  for  I  know 
That,    where    the     share    is     deepest 

driven, 
The  best  fruits  grow. 


THE  PRISONER  EOR  DEBT. 


127 


The  outworn  rite,  the  old  abuse, 

The  pious  fraud  transparent  grown. 
The  good  held  captive  in  the  use 
Of  wrong  alone, — 

These  wait   their  doom,    from    that 

great  law 
Which  makes  the  past  time  serve 

to-day ; 

And  fresher  life  the  world  shall  draw 
From  their  de^ay. 

O,  backward-looking  son  of  time ! 
The  new  is  old,  the  old  is  new, 
The  cycle  of  a  change  sublime 
Still  sweeping  through. 

So  wisely  taught  the  Indian  seer; 

Destroying   Seva,   forming   Brahm, 
Who  wake  by  turns  Earth's  love  and 

fear, 
Are  one,  the  same. 

As  idly  as,  in  that  old  day, 
Thou   mournest,   did  thy   sires   re 
pine, 

So,  in  his  time,  thy  child  grown  gray 
Shall  sigh  for  thine. 

Yet,  not  the  less  for  them  or  thou 

The  eternal  step  of  Progress  beats 
To  that  great  anthem,  calm  and  slow, 
Which  God  repeats ! 

Take     heart !— the     Waster      builds 

again, — 

A  charmed  life  old  Goodness  hath ; 
The  tares  may  perish,— but  the  grain 
Is  not  for  death. 

God  works  in  all  things ;  all  obey 

His  first  propulsion  from  the  night ; 
Ho,  wake  and  watch! — the  world  is 

gray 
With    morning    light ! 


THE  PRISONER  FOR  DEBT. 

LOOK  on  him ! — through  his  dungeon 

grate 
Feebly  and  cold,  the  morning  light 


Comes  stealing  round  him,  dim  and 

late, 

As  if  it  loathed  the  sight. 
Reclining  on  his  strawy  bed, 
His  hand  upholds  his  drooping 

head, — 
His   bloodless   cheek   is   seamed   and 

hard, 

Unshorn  his  gray,  neglected  beard; 
And  o'er  his  bony  fingers  flow 
His  long,  dishevelled  locks  of  snow. 

No  grateful  fire  before  him  glows, 
And  yet  the  winter's  breath  is  chill ; 

And  o'er  his  half-clad  person  goes 
The  frequent  ague  thrill! 

Silent,  save  ever  and  anon, 

A    sound,    half    murmur     and     half 
groan, 

Forces  apart  the  painful  grip 

Of  the  old  sufferer's  bearded  lip; 

O  sad  and  crushing  is  the  fate 

Of  old  age  chained  and  desolate! 

Just    God!    why  lies    that    old  man 

there  ? 

A  murderer  shares  his  prison  bed, 
Whose   eyeballs,   through   his    horrid 

hair, 

Gleam  on  him,  fierce  and  red; 
And  the  rude  oath  and  heartless  jeer 
Fall  ever  on  his  loathing  ear, 
And,  or  in  wakefulness  or  sleep, 
Nerve,   flesh,  and  pulses    thrill    and 

creep 

Whene'er  that  ruffian's  tossing  limb, 
Crimson  with  murder,  touches  him! 

What    has    the    gray-haired  prisoner 

done? 
Has  murder  stained  his  hands  with 

gore? 
Not  so ;  his  crime's  a  fouler  one ; 

GOD   MADE  THE  OLD   MAN  POOR  ! 

For  this  he  shares  a  felon's  cell, — 
The  fittest  earthly  type  of  hell! 
For    this,    the    boon    for    which     he 

poured 
His    young    blood   on  the  invader's 

sword, 


128 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


And  counted  light  the  fearful  cost,— 
His  blood-gained  liberty  is  lost! 

And  so,  for  such  a  place  of  rest, 
Old  prisoner,  dropped  thy  blood  as 

rain 
On    Concord's    field,    and     Bunker's 

crest, 

And  Saratoga's  plain? 
Look  forth,  thou  man  of  many  scars, 
Through    thy     dim     dungeon's     iron 

bars; 

It  must  be  joy,  in  sooth,  to  see 
Yon  monument  upreared  to  thee, — 
Piled  granite  and  a  prison  cell, — 
The  land  repays  thy  service  well ! 

Go,  ring  the  bells  and  fire  the  guns, 

And  fling  the  starry  banner  out ; 
Shout  "  Freedom !  "  till  your  lisping 

ones 

Give  back  their  cradle-shout; 
Let  boastful  eloquence  declaim 
Of  honor,  liberty,  and  fame ; 
Still  let  the  poet's  strain  be  heard, 
With  glory  for  each  second  word, 
And  everything  with  breath  agree 
To  praise  "  our  glorious  liberty !  " 

But  when  the  patron  cannon  jars, 
That  prison's  cold  and  gloomy  wall, 

And   through    its    grates    the    stripes 

and  stars 
Rise  on  the  wind  and  fall, — 

Think  ye  that  prisoner's  aged  ear 

Rejoices  in  the  general  cheer? 

Think  ye  his  dim  and  failing  eye 

Is  kindled  at  your  pageantry? 

Sorrowing  of  soul,  and    chained    of 
limb, 

What  is  your  carnival  to  him? 


Down  with  the  LAW  that  binds  him 
thus! 

Unworthy   freemen,   let  it  find 
No  refuge  from  the  withering  curse 

Of  God  and  human  kind ! 
Open  the  prison's  living  tomb, 
And  usher  from  its  brooding  gloom 
The  victims  of  your  savage  code 
To  the  free  sun  and  air  of  God; 


No  longer  dare  as  crime  to  brand 
The    chastening    of    the     Almighty's 
hand. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  READING  PAMPHLETS  PUB 
LISHED  BY  CLERGYMEN  AGAINST  THE 
ABOLITION  OF  THE  GALLOWS. 


I. 


THE  suns  of  eighteen  centuries  have 

shone 
Since   the   Redeemer   walked   with 

man,  and  made 
The  fisher's  boat,  the  cavern's  floor 

of  stone, 
And  mountain  moss,  a  pillow  for 

his  head; 
And    He,    who    wandered    with  the 

peasant  Jew, 
And  broke  with  publicans  the  bread 

of  shame, 
And  drank,  with    blessings    in    his 

Father's  name, 
The  water  which   Samaria's   outcast 

drew, 
Hath    now   his    temples    upon    every 

shore, 
Altar  and   shrine  and  priest, — and 

incense  dim 
Evermore   rising,  with  low  prayer 

and  hymn, 
From  lips   which  press  the  temple's 

marble  floor, 

Or  kiss  the  gilded  sign  of  the  dread 
Cross  He  bore. 


n. 


Yet  as  of  old,  when,  meekly  "doing 
good," 

He  fed  a  blind  and  selfish  multitude, 

And  even  the  poor  companions  of  his 
lot 

With  their  dim  earthly  vision  knew 

him  not, 

How  ill  are  his  high  teachings  un 
derstood  ! 


LINES. 


129 


Where  He  hath  spoken  Liberty,  the 

priest 
At  his  own  altar  binds  the  chain 

anew; 
Where  He  hath  bidden  to  Life's  equal 

feast, 
The  starving  many  wait  upon  the 

few; 
Where    He   hath    spoken    Peace,    his 

name  hath  been 
The    loudest   war-cry    of   contending 

men; 
Priests,  pale  with  vigils,  in  his  name 

have  blessed 
The  unsheathed  sword,  and  laid  the 

spear  in  rest, 
Wet  the  war-banner  with  their  sacred 

wine, 
And  crossed  its  blazon  with  the  holy 

sign; 
Yea,  in  his  name  who  bade  the  erring 

live. 

And  daily  taught  his  lesson, — to  for 
give  ! — 
Twisted   the    cord   and    edged   the 

murderous  steel ; 
And,    with   his   words   of   mercy   on 

their  lips, 

Hung  gloating  o'er  the  pincers  burn 
ing  grips, 

And  the  grim  horror  of  the  strain 
ing  wheel ; 
Fed  the  slow  flame  which  gnawed  the 

victim's  limb, 
Who  saw  before  his  searing  eyeballs 

swim 
The  image  of  their  Christ  in  cruel 

zeal, 
Through    the    black    torment-smoke, 

held  mockingly  to  him! 


in. 


The   blood   which   mingled  with   the 

desert  sand, 
And  beaded  with  its  red  and  ghastly 

dew 
The  vines  and    olives    of    the    Holy 

Land, — 


The  shrieking  curses  of  the  hunted 
Jew, — 

The  white-sown    bones    of    heretics, 
where'er 

They  sank  beneath  the  Crusade's  holy 
spear, — 

Goa's    dark   dungeons, — Malta's    sea- 
washed  cell, 
Where  with  the  hymns  the  ghostly 

fathers  sung 

Mingled  the  groans  by  subtle  tor 
ture  wrung, 

Heaven's   anthem  blending  with  the 
shriek  of  hell! 

The  midnight  of  Bartholomew, — the 

stake 

Of    Smithfield,    and   the   thrice-ac 
cursed  flame 

Which    Calvin    kindled   by    Geneva's 
lake,— 

New     England's     scaffold,    and    the 
priestly  sneer 

Which   mocked   its   victims     in    that 

hour  of  fear, 

When    guilt    itself    a    human    tear 
might  claim, — 

Bear  witness,  O   thou   wronged  and 
merciful  One! 

That    Earth's    most    hateful    crimes 
have  in  thy  name  been  done ! 


IV. 


Thank  God!  that  I  have  lived  to  see 

the  time 
When  the  great  truth  begins  at  last 

to  find 
An  utterance  from  the  deep  heart 

of  mankind, 
Earnest  and  clear,  that  ALL  REVENGE 

is  CRIME! 
That  man  is  holier  than  a   creed,— 

that  all 
Restraint   upon   him   must   consult 

his  good, 
Hope's  sunshine  linger  on  his  prison 

wall, 

And  Love  look  in  upon  his  solitude. 
The  beautiful  lesson  which  our  Sav 
iour  taught 


L°,0 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Through  long,  dark  centuries  its  way 
hath  wrought 

Into  the  common  mind  and  popular 
thought ; 

And  words,  to  which  by  Galilee's 
lake  shore 

The  humble  fishers  listened  with 
hushed  oar, 

Have  found  an  echo  in  the  general 
heart, 

And  of  the  public  faith  become  a  liv 
ing  part. 


v. 


Who    shall    arrest    this    tendency? — 

Bring  back 
The  cells  of  Venice  and  the  bigot's 

rack? 
Harden  the  softening    human    heart 

again 
To   cold   indifference  to   a   brother's 

pain? 
Ye  most  unhappy  men ! — who,  turned 

away 
From  the  mild  sunshine  of  the  Gospel 

day, 

Grope  in  the  shadows  of  Man's  twi 
light  time, 
What  mean  ye,  that  with  ghoul-like 

zest  ye  brood, 
O'er  those  foul  altars  streaming  with 

warm  blood, 
Permitted     in     another     age     and 

clime  ? 
Why  cite  that   law   with   which   the 

bigot  Jew 
Rebuked    the    Pagan's    mercy,    when 

he  knew 

No   evil   in  the   Just   One?— Where 
fore  turn 
To  the  dark  cruel  past?— Can  ye  not 

learn 
From   the   pure   Teacher's    life,    how 

mildly  free 

Is  the  great  Gospel  of  Humanity? 
The  Flamen's  knife  is  bloodless,  and 

no  more 
Mexitli's    altars    soak    with    human 

gore, 
No  more  the  ghastly  sacrifices  smoke 


Through    the    green    arches    of    the 

Druid's  oak ; 
And  ye  of   milder   faith,   with   your 

high  claim 
Of  prophet-utterance   in  the  Holiest 

name, 
Will   ye   become  the  Druids   of  our 

time ! 
Set  up  your  scaffold-altars  in  our 

land, 
And,   consecrators  of  Law's   darkest 

crime, 
Urge    to    its    loathsome    work   the 

hangman's  hand? 
Beware, — lest  human  nature,   roused 

at  last, 

From   its   peeled   shoulder   your    en 
cumbrance  cast, 
And,   sick  to   loathing  of  your  cry 

for  blood, 
Rank   ye  with   those   who    led   their 

victims  round 
The  Celt's  red  altar  and  the  Indian's 

mound, 
Abhorred  of  Earth  and  Heaven, — 

a  pagan  brotherhood ! 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE. 


FAR  from  his  close  and  noisome  cell, 

By  grassy  lane  and  sunny  stream, 

Blown    clover    field    and    strawberry 

dell, 
And  green  and  meadow  freshness,  fell 

The  footsteps  of  his  dream. 
Again  from  careless  feet  the  dew 

Of  summer's  misty  morn  he  shook ; 
Again  with  merry  heart  he  threw 

His  light  line  in  the  rippling  brook. 
Back     crowded    all     his     school-day 

joys,— 

He  urged  the  ball  and  quoit  again, 

And  heard  the  shout  of  laughing  boys 

Come    ringing    down    the    walnut 

glen. 

Again  he  felt  the  western  breeze, 
With  scent  of  flowers  and  crisping 
hay; 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE. 


131 


And  down  again  through  wind-stirre 

trees 

He  saw  the  quivering  sunlight  play 
An  angel  in  home's  vine-hung  door 
He  saw  his  sister  smile  once  more ; 
Once  more  the  truant's  brown-locke 

head 

Upon  his  mother's  knees  was  laid, 
And  sweetly  lulled  to  slumber  there 
With  evening's  holy  hymn  and  prayer 


IT. 


He  woke.   At  once  on  heart  and  brain 
The  present  Terror   rushed  again, — 
Clanked  on  his  limbs  the  felon's  chain 
He  woke,  to  hear  the  church-tower 

tell 

Time's  footfall  on  the  conscious  bell, 
And,    shuddering,   feel   that  clanging 

din 

His  life's  LAST  HOUR  had  ushered  in; 
To   see  within  his   prison-yard, 
Through    the     small    window,    iron 

barred, 

The  gallows  shadow  rising  dim 
Between     the     sunrise     heaven     and 

him, — 
A  horror  in  God's  blessed  air, — 

A  blackness  in  his  morning  light, — 
Like  some  foul  devil-altar  there 
Built  up  by  demon  hands  at  night. 
And,  maddened  by  that  evil  sight, 
Dark,  horrible,  confused,  and  strange, 
A  chaos  of  wild,  weltering  change, 
All  power  of  check  and  guidance  gone, 
Dizzy  and  blind,  his  mind  swept  on. 
In  vain  he  strove  to  breathe  a  prayer, 
In  vain  he  turned  the  Holy  Book, 
He  only  heard  the  gallows-stair 
^  Creak  as  the  wind  its  timbers  shook. 
No  dream  for  him  of  sin  forgiven, 
While    still    that     baleful     spectre 

stood, 
With   its   hoarse   murmur,    "Blood 

for  Blood!  " 
Between  him  and  the  pitying  Heaven ! 

in. 

Low  on  his  dungeon  floor  he  knelt, 
And  smote  his  breast,  and  on  his 
chain, 


Whose  iron  clasp  he  always  felt, 

His  hot  tears  fell  like  rain; 
And  near  him,  with  the  cold,  calm 

look 

And  tone  of  one  whose  formal  part, 
Unwarmed,unsoftened  of  the  heart, 
Is  measured  out  by  rule  and  book, 
With  placid  lip  and  tranquil  blood, 
The  hangman's  ghostly  ally  stood, 
Blessing  with  solemn  text  and  word 
The     gallows-drop     and      strangling 

cord ; 

Lending  the  sacred  Gospel's  awe 
And  sanction  to  the  crime  of  Law. 


IV. 


He  saw  the  victim's  tortured  brow,— 
The     sweat     of     anguish     starting 

there, — 

The  record  of  a  nameless  woe 
In  the  dim  eye's  imploring  stare, 
Seen   hideous    through    the    long, 

damp  hair, — 
Fingers  of  ghastly  skin  and  bone 
Working  and  writhing  on  the  stone ! — 
And  heard,  by  mortal  terror  wrung 
From   heaving   breast   and    stiffened 

tongue, 
The  choking  sob  and  low   hoarse 

prayer ; 

As  o'er  his  half-crazed  fancy  came 
A  vision  of  the  eternal  flame, — 
[ts  smoking  cloud  of  agonies, — 
[ts  demon-worm  that  never  dies, — 
The  everlasting  rise  and  fall 
Of  fire-waves  round  the  infernal  wall ; 
While  high  above  that  dark  red  flood, 
Black,  giant-like,  the  gallows   stood ; 
Two  busy  fiends  attending  there : 
One    with    cold     mocking     rite     and 

prayer, 

The  other   with   impatient  grasp, 
Tightening    the    death-rope's    stran 
gling  clasp. 


The  unfelt  rite  at  length  was  done, — 
The  prayer  unheard  at  length  was 

said, — 

An  hour  had  passed: — the  noonday 
sun 


132 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Smote  on  the  features  of  the  dead ! 
And  he  who  stood  the  doomed  beside, 
Calm  gauger  of  the  swelling  tide 
Of  mortal  agony  and  fear, 
Heeding  with  curious  eye  and  ear 
Whate'er  revealed  the  keen  excess 
Of  man's  extremest  wretchedness: 
And  who  in  that  dark  anguish  saw 

An  earnest  of  the  victim's  fate, 
The  vengeful  terrors  of  God's  law, 

The  kindlings  of  Eternal  hate,— 
The  first  drops  of  that  fiery  rain 
Which  beats  the  dark  red  realm  of 

pain, 
Did  he  uplift  his  earnest  cries 

Against  the  crime  of  Law,  which 
gave 

His  brother  to  that  fearful  grave, 
Whereon  Hope's  moonlight  never  lies, 

And  Faith's  white  blossoms  never 

wave 
To    the    soft    breath     of     Memory's 

sighs ; — 
Which     sent    a     spirit    marred    and 

stained, 

By  fiends  of  sin  possessed,  profaned, 
In  madness  and  in  blindness  stark, 
Into  the  silent,  unknown  dark? 
No, — from   the   wild    and    shrinking 

dread 
With  which  he  saw  the  victim  led 

Beneath  the  dark  veil  which  divides 
Ever  the  living  from  the  dead, 

And  Nature's  solemn  secret  hides, 
The  man  of  prayer  can  only  draw 
New  reasons  for  his  bloody  law; 
New  faith  in  staying  Murder's  hand 
By  murder  at  that  Law's  command; 
New  reverence  for  the  gallows-rope, 
As  human  Nature's  latest  hope; 
Last  relic  of  the  good  old  time, 
When    Power    found    license    for    its 

crime, 

And  held  a  writhing  world  in  check 
By  that  fell  cord  about  its  neck ; 
Stifled    Sedition's   rising   shout, 
Choked  the  young  breath  of  Freedom 

out, 

And  timely  checked  the  words  which 
sprung 


From  Heresy's  forbidden  tongue; 
While  in  its  noose  of  terror  bound, 
The  Church  its  cherished  union  found, 
Conforming,  on  the  Moslem  plan, 
The  motley-colored  mind  of  man, 
Not  by  the  Koran  and  the  Sword, 
But  by  the  Bible  and  the  Cord! 


VI. 


O,  Thou !  at  whose  rebuke  the  grave 
Back  to  warm  life  its  sleeper  gave, 
Beneath  whose  sad  and  tearful  glance 
The  cold  and  changed  countenance 
Broke  the  still  horror  of  its  trance, 
And,  waking,  saw  with  joy  above, 
A  brother's  face  of  tenderest  love ; 
Thou,  unto  whom  the  blind  and  lame, 
The  sorrowing  and  the  sin-sick  came, 
And  from  thy  very  garment's  hem 
Drew  life  and  healing  unto  them, 
The  burden  of  thy  holy  faith 
Was  love  and  life,  not  hate  and  death, 
Man's  demon  ministers  of  pain, 

The  fiends  of  his  revenge  were  sent 

From  thy  pure  Gospel's  element 
To  their  dark  home  again. 
Thy  name  is  Love !    What,  then,  is 
he, 

Who  in  that  name  the  gallows  rears, 
An  awful  altar  built  to  thee, 

With  sacrifice  of  blood  and  tears? 
O,  once  again  thy  healing  lay 

On  the  blind  eyes  which  knew  thee 

not 
And  let  the  light  of  thy  pure  day 

Melt  in  upon  his  darkened  thought. 
Soften  his  hard,  cold  heart,  and  show 

The    power    which    in    forbearance 

lies, 
And  let  him  feel  that  mercy  now 

Is  better  than  old  sacrifice ! 

VII. 

As  on  the  White  Sea's  charmed  shore, 
The  Parsee  sees  his  holy  hill 

With  dunnest  smoke-clouds  curtained 
o'er, 

Yet  knows  beneath  them,  evermore, 
The  low,  pale  fire  is  quivering  still ; 


RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE. 


133 


So,  underneath  its  clouds  of  sin, 

The  heart  of  man  retaineth  yet 
Gleams  of  its  holy  origin; 

And  half-quenched  stars  that  never 

set, 
Dim  colors  of  its  faded  bow, 

And  early  beauty,  linger  there, 
And  o'er  its  wasted  desert  blow 

Faint  breathings  of  its  morning  air, 
O,  never  yet  upon  the  scroll 
Of  the  sin-stained,  but  priceless  soul, 

Hath  Heaven  inscribed  "  DESPAIR  !  " 
Cast  not  the  clouded  gem  away, 
Quench  not  the  dim  but  living  ray, — 

My  brother  man,  Beware! 
With  that  deep  voice  which  from  the 

skies 
Forbade  the  Patriach's  sacrifice, 

God's  angel  cries,  FORBEAR! 


RANDOLPH   OF  ROANOKE. 

O  MOTHER  EARTH  !  upon  thy  lap 

Thy  weary  ones  receiving, 
And  o'er  them,  silent  as  a  dream, 

Thy  grassy  mantle  weaving, 
Fold  softly  in  thy  long  embrace 

That  heart  so  worn  and  broken, 
And  cool  its  pulse  of  fire  beneath 

Thy  shadows  old  and  oaken. 

Shut  out  from  him  the  bitter  word 

And  serpent  hiss  of  scorning; 
Nor  let  the  storms  of  yesterday 

Disturb  his  quiet  morning. 
Breathe  over  him  forgetfulness 

Of  all  save  deeds  of  kindness, 
And,  save  to  smiles  of  grateful  eyes, 

Press  down  his  lids  in  blindness. 

There,  where  with  living  ear  and  eye 

He  heard  Potomac's  flowing, 
And,  through  his  tall  ancestral  trees, 

Saw   autumn's    sunset   glowing, 
He  sleeps, — still  looking  to  the  west, 

Beneath  the  dark  wood  shadow, 
As  if  he  still  would  see  the  sun 

Sink  down  on  wave  and  meadow. 


Bard,  Sage,  and  Tribune ! — in  himself 

All  moods  of  mind  contrasting, — 
The  tenderest  wail  of  human  woe, 

The   scorn-like   lightning   blasting; 
The  pathos  which  from  rival  eyes 

Unwilling  tears  could  summon, 
The  stinging  taunt,  the  fiery  burst 

Of  hatred   scarcely  human! 

Mirth,    sparkling     like     a     diamond 
shower, 

From  lips  of  life-long  sadness ; 
Clear  picturings  of  majestic  thought 

Upon  a  ground  of  madness ; 
And  over  all  Romance  and  Song 

A  classic  beauty  throwing, 
And  laurelled  Clio  at  his  side 

Her  storied  pages  showing. 

All  parties  feared  him:  each  in  turn 

Beheld  its   schemes  disjointed, 
As  right  or  left  his  fatal  glance 

And  spectral  finger  pointed. 
Sworn  foe  of  Cant,  he  smote  it  down 

With  trenchant  wit  unsparing, 
And,    mocking,     rent     with     ruthless 
hand 

The  robe  Pretence  was  wearing. 

Too  honest  or  too  proud  to  feign 

A  love  he  never  cherished, 
Beyond  Virginia's  border  line 

His  patriotism  perished. 
While  others  hailed  in  distant  skies 

Our  eagle's  dusky  pinion, 
He  only  saw  the  mountain  bird 

Stoop  o'er  his  Old  Dominion ! 

Still  through  each  change  of  fortune 
strange, 

Racked  nerve,  and  brain  all  burning, 
His  loving  faith  in  Mother-land 

Knew  never  shade  of  turning; 
By  Britain's  lakes,  by  Neva's  wave, 

Whatever   sky  was   o'er  him, 
He  heard  her  rivers'  rushing  sound, 

Her  blue  peaks  rose  before  him. 

He  held  his  slaves,  yet  made  withal 
No  false  and  vain  pretences, 


134 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Nor  paid  a  lying  priest  to  seek 

For  Scriptural  defences. 
His  harshest  words  of  proud  rebuke, 

His  bitterest  taunt  and  scorning, 
Fell  fire-like  on  the  Northern  brow 

That  bent  to  him  in  fawning. 

He  held  his  slaves ;  yet  kept  the  while 

His  reverence  for  the  Human ; 
In  the  dark  vassals  of  his  will 

He  saw  but  Man  and  Woman ! 
No  hunter  of  God's  outraged  poor 

His  Roanoke  valley  entered ; 
No  trader  in  the  souls  of  men 

Across  his  threshold  ventured. 

And  when  the  old  and  wearied  man 

Lay  down  for  his  last  sleeping, 
And  at  his  side,  a  slave  no  more, 

His  brother-man  stood  weeping, 
His  latest  thought,  his  latest  breath, 

To  Freedom's  duty  giving, 
With  failing  tongue    and    trembling 
hand 

The  dying  blest  the  living. 

O,  never  bore  his  ancient  State 

A  truer  son  or  braver ! 
None  trampling  with  a  calmer  scorn 

On  foreign  hate  or  favor. 
He  knew  her  faults,  yet  never  stooped 

His  proud  and  manly  feeling 
To  poor  excuses  of  the  wrong 

Or  meanness  of  concealing. 

But  none  beheld  with  clearer  eye 

The  plague-spot  o'er  her  spreading, 
None  heard  more   sure  the  steps  of 
Doom 

Along  her  future  treading. 
For  her  as  for  himself  he  spake, 

When,  his  gaunt  frame  upbracing, 
He   traced   with     dying    hand    "  RE 
MORSE  !  " 

And  perished  in  the  tracing. 

As    from    the    grave    where    Henry 
sleeps, 

From  Vernon's  weeping  willow, 
And  from  the  grassy  pall  which  hides 

The  Sage  of  Monticello, 


So  from  the  leaf-strewn  burial-stone 
Of  Randolph's  lowly  dwelling, 

Virginia !  o'er  thy  land  of  slaves 
A  warning  voice  is  swelling ! 

And  hark !  from  thy  deserted  fields 

Are  sadder  warnings  spoken, 
From   quenched    hearths,    where   thy 
exiled  sons 

Their  household  gods  have  broken. 
The    curse    is    on   thee, — wolves    for 
men, 

And  briers  for  corn-sheaves  giving ! 
O,  more  than  all  thy  dead  renown 

Were  now  one  hero  living! 


DEMOCRACY. 

All  things  whatsoever  ye  would  that  men 
should  do  to  you.  do  ve  even  so  to  them. — 
Matthew  vii.  12. 

BEARER  of  Freedom's  holy  light, 
Breaker  of  Slavery's  chain  and  rod, 

The  foe  of  all  which  pains  the  sight, 
Or    wounds    the    generous    ear    of 
God! 

Beautiful   yet   thy  temples   rise, 
Though   there   profaning   gifts   are 
thrown ; 

And  fires  unkindled  of  the  skies 
Are  glaring  round  thy  altar-stone. 

Still    sacred,— though    thy    name    be 

breathed 
By  those   whose   hearts    thy   truth 

deride ; 
And  garlands,  plucked  from  thee,  are 

wreathed 
Around  the  haughty  brows  of  Pride. 

O,  ideal  of  my  boyhood's  time ! 

The  faith  in  which  my  father  stood, 
Even  when  the  sons  of  Lust  and 

Crime 

Had  stained    thy    peaceful    courts 
with  blood ! 

Still    to    those    courts    my    footsteps 

turn, 

For  through  the  mists  which  darken 
there, 


tO  RONGE. 


135 


I  see  the  flame  of  Freedom  burn, — 
The  Kebla  of  the  patriot's  prayer! 

The  generous  feeling,  pure  and  warm, 
Which  owns  the  rights   of  all  di 
vine, — 
The     pitying      heart,  —  the      helping 

arm, — 

The      prompt      self-sacrifice,  —  are 
thine. 

Beneath  thy  broad,  impartial  eye, 
How   fade  the  lines  of  caste  and 
birth ! 

How  equal  in  their  suffering  lie 
The  groaning  multitudes  of  earth ! 

Still  to  a  stricken  brother  true, 
Whatever  clime  hath  nurtured  him; 

As  stooped  to  heal  the  wounded  Jew 
The  worshipper  of  Gerizim. 

By  misery  unrepelled,  unawed 

By   pomp   or  power,   thou   seest   a 
"MAN 

In  prince  or  peasant, — slave  or  lord, — 
Pale  priest,  or  swarthy  artisan. 

Through  all  disguise,  form,  place,  or 
name, 

Beneath  the  flaunting  robes,  of  sin, 
Through  poverty  and  squalid  shame, 

Thou  lookest  on  the  man  within. 

On  man,  as  man,  retaining  yet, 
Howe'er   debased,  and   soiled,  and 
dim, 

The  crown  upon  his  forehead  set, — 
The  immortal  gift  of  God  to  him. 

And  there  is  reverence  in  thy  look; 
For  that  frail  form  which  mortals 

wear 

The  Spirit  of  the  Holiest  took, 
And   veiled   his   perfect   brightness 
there. 

Not  from  the  shallow  babbling  fount 
Of  vain  philosophy  thou  art ; 

He  who  of  old  on  Syria's  mount 
Thrilled,  warmed,  hy  turns,  the  lis 
tener's  heart, 


In  holy  words  which  cannot  die, 
In  thoughts  which  angels  leaned  to 

know, 
Proclaimed    thy    message    from    on 

high,— 
Thy  mission  to  a  world  of  woe. 

That  voice's  echo  hath  not  died ! 

From  the  blue  lake  of  Galilee, 
And  Tabor's  lonely  mountain-side, 

It  calls  a  struggling  world  to  thee. 

Thy  name  and  watchword  o'er  this 
land 

I  hear  in  every  breeze  that  stirs, 
And  round  a  thousand  altars   stand 

Thy  banded  party  worshippers. 

Not  to  these  altars  of  a  day, 
At  party's  call,  my  gift  I  bring; 

But  on  thy  olden  shrine  I  lay 
A   freeman's  dearest  offering: 

The  voiceless  utterance  of  his  will, — 
His   pledge   to     Freedom    and     to 

Truth, 
That    manhood's    heart     remembers 

still 

The  homage  of  his  generous  youth. 
Election  Day,  1843. 


TO  RONGE. 

STRIKE  home,  strong-hearted  man! 
Down  to  the  root 

Of  old  oppression  sink  the  Saxon 
steel. 

Thy  work  is  to  hew  down.  In  God's 
name  then 

Put  nerve  into  thy  task.  Let  other 
men 

Plant,  as  they  may,  that  better  tree 
whose  fruit 

The  wounded  bosom  of  the  Church 
shall  heal. 

Be  thou  the  image-breaker.  Let  thy 
blows 

Fall  heavy  as  the  Suabian's  iron  hand, 

On  crown  or  crosier,  which  shall  in 
terpose 

Between  thee  and  the  weal  of  Father 
land. 


136 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Leave  creeds  to  closet  idlers.      First 

of  all, 
Shake  thou   all    German   dream-land 

with  the  fall 
Of  that  accursed    tree,    whose    evil 

trunk 

Was  spared  of  old  by  Erfurt's  stal 
wart  monk. 
Fight  not  with  ghosts  and  shadows. 

Let  us  hear 
The   snap   of  chain-links.      Let    our 

gladdened  ear 
Catch  the  pale  prisoner's  welcome,  as 

the  light 
Follows  thy  axe-stroke,  through  his 

cell  of  night. 
Be  faithful  to  both  worlds ;  nor  think 

to  feed 
Earth's   starving    millions    with    the 

husks  of  creed. 
Servant  of  Him  whose  mission  high 

and  holy 
Was  to  the  wronged,  the  sorrowing, 

and  the  lowly, 
Thrust  not  his   Eden   promise  from 

our  sphere, 
Distant  and  dim  beyond  the  blue  sky's 

span; 
Like  him  of  Patmos,  see  it,  now  and 

here, — 
The  New  Jerusalem  comes  down  to 

man ! 
Be  warned  by  Luther's  error.      Nor 

like  him, 
When  the  roused  Teuton  dashes  from 

his  limb 

The  rusted  chain  of  ages,  help  to  bind 
His  hands  for  whom  thou  claim'st  the 

freedom  of  the  mind! 


CHALKLEY  HALL. 

How  bland  and  sweet  the  greeting  of 

this  breeze 
To  him  who  flies 
From  crowded  street  and  red  wall's 

weary  gleam, 
Till   far  behind   him   like   a  hideous 

dream 
The  close  dark  city  lies! 


Here,    while    the    market    murmurs, 

while  men  throng 
The  marble  floor 
Of  Mammon's  altar,  from  the  crush 

and  din 
Of  the  world's  madness  let  me  gather 

in 
My  better  thoughts  once  more. 


O,  once  again  revive,  while  on  my  ear 

The  cry  of  Gain 
And  low  hoarse  hum  of  Traffic  die 

away, 
Ye  blessed  memories  of  my  early  day 

Like  sere  grass  wet  with  rain ! — 

Once  more  let<  God's  green  earth  and 

sunset  air 

Old  feelings  waken: 
Through   weary  years    of    toil    and 

strife  and  ill, 

O,  let  me  feel  that  my  good  angel  still 
Hath  not  his  trust  forsaken. 

And  well  do  time  and  place  befit  my 

mood: 

Beneath  the  arms 
Of  this  embracing  wood,  a  good  man 

made 
His   home,   like  Abraham   resting  m 

the  shade 
Of  Mamre's  lonely  palms. 

Here,   rich    with    autumn    gifts    of 

countless  years, 
The  virgin  soil 
Turned  from  the  share  he  guided,  and 

in  rain 
And    summer    sunshine    throve     the 

fruits  and  grain 
Which  blessed  his  honest  toil. 


Here,  from  his  voyages  on  the  stormy 

seas, 

Weary  and  worn, 
He  came  to  meet  his  children  and  to 

bless 

The  Giver  of  all  good  in  thankfulness 
And  praise  for  his  return. 


TO  J.  P. 


137 


And  here  his  neighbors  gathered  in 

to  greet 

Their  friend  again, 
Safe  from  the  wave  and  the  destroy 
ing  gales, 

Which   reap   untimely  green   Bermu 
da's  vales, 
And  vex  the  Carib  main. 

To  hear  the  good  man  tell  of  simple 

truth, 

Sown  in  an  hour 
Of  weakness  in  some  far-off  Indian 

isle, 
From  the  parched  bosom  of  a  barren 

soil, 
Raised  up  in  life  and  power: 


How  at  those  gatherings  in  Barbadian 

vales, 

A  tendering  love 
Came  o'er  him,  like  the  gentle  rain 

from  heaven, 
And  words  of  fitness  to  his  lips  were 

given, 
And  strength  as  from  above : 

How  the  sad  captive  listened  to  the 

Word, 

Until  his  chain 
Grew  lighter,  and  his  wounded  spirit 

felt 

The  healing  balm  of  consolation  melt 
Upon  its  life-long  pain : 

How  the  armed  warrior  sat  him  down 

to  hear 

Of  Peace  and  Truth, 
And  the  proud  ruler  and  his  Creole 

dame, 
Jewelled  and  gorgeous  in  her  beauty 

came, 
And  fair  and  bright-eyed  youth. 

O,  far  away  beneath  New  England's 

sky, 

Even  when  a  boy, 
Following  my  plough  by  Merrimack's 

green  shore, 


His  simple  record  I  have  pondered 

o'er 
With  deep  and  quiet  joy. 

And  hence  this  scene,  in  sunset  glory 

warm, — 

Its  woods  around, 
Its   still   stream  winding  on  in  light 

and  shade, 

Its   soft,  green  meadows  and  its  up 
land  glade, — 
To  me  is  holy  ground. 

And  dearer  far  than    haunts    where 

Genius  keeps 
His  vigils  still; 
Than  that  where  Avon's  son  of  song 

is  laid, 

Or  Vaucluse   hallowed    by    its     Pe 
trarch's  shade, 
Or  Virgil's   laurelled  hill. 

To  the  gray  walls  of  fallen  Paraclete, 

To  Juliet's  urn, 

Fair    Arno    and    Sorrento's    orange- 
grove, 

Where    Tasso    sang,   let   young   Ro 
mance  and  Love 
Like  brother  pilgrims  turn. 

But  here  a  deeper  and  serener  charm 

To   all  is  given; 
And  blessed  memories  of  the  faithful 

dead 

O'er  wood  and  vale    and    meadow- 
stream  have  shed 
The  holy  hues  of  Heaven! 


TO  J.  P. 

NOT  as  a  poor  requital  of  the  joy 
With    which    my    childhood    heard 

that  lay  of  thine, 
Which,   like  an  echo  of  the   song 

divine 
At    Bethlehem    breathed    above     the 

Holy  Boy, 

Bore  to  my  ear  the  Airs  of  Pales 
tine, — 
Not  to  the  poet,  but  the  man  I  bring 


138 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


In  friendship's  fearless  trust  my  of 
fering  : 

How  much  it  lacks  I  feel,  and  thou 
wilt  see, 

Yet   well    I    know    that    thou     hast 
deemed  with  me 

Life  all  too  earnest,  and  its  time  too 
short 

For  dreamy  ease  and  Fancy's  grace 
ful  sport; 

And  girded  for  thy  constant  strife 
with  wrong, 

Like     Nehemiah    fighting    while    he 

wrought 

The  broken  walls  of  Zion,  even  thy 
song 

Hath  a  rude  martial  tone,  a  blow  in 
every  thought! 


THE  CYPRESS-TREE  OF 
CEYLON. 

[!BN  BATUTA,  the  celebrated  Mussulman 
traveller  of  the  fourteenth  century,  speaks 
of  a  rvpress-tree  in  Ceylon,  universally  held 
sacred  by  the  natives,  the  leaves  of  which 
were  said  to  fall  only  at  certain  intervals,  and 
he  who  had  the  happiness  to  find  and  eat  one 
of  them,  was  restored,  at  once,  to  youth  and 
vigor.  The  traveller  saw  several  venerable 
TOGEES.  or  saints,  sittine  silent  and  motion 
less  under  the  tree,  patiently  awaiting  the 
falling  of  a  leaf  ] 

THEY  sat  in  silent  watchfulness 
The  sacred  cypress-tree  about, 

And,    from     beneath     old     wrinkled 

brows 
Their  failing  eyes  looked  out. 

Gray  Age  and  Sickness  waiting  there 
Through  weary  night  and  lingering 
day, — 

Grim  as  the  idols  at  their  side, 
And  motionless  as  they. 

Unheeded  in  the  boughs  above 
The   song   of   Ceylon's   birds    was 
sweet ; 

Unseen  of  them  the  island  flowers 
Bloomed  brightly  at  their  feet. 


O'er    them     the    tropic    night-storm 

swept, 
The  thunder  crashed  on  rock  and 

hill; 
The     cloud-fire     on     their     eyeballs 

blazed, 
Yet  there  they  waited  still! 

What  was  the  world  without  to  them? 
The  Moslem's  sunset-call,  —  the 

dance 
Of     Ceylon's     maids,  —  the     passing 

gleam 
Of  battle-flag  and  lance? 

They  waited  for  that  falling  leaf 
Of   which    the    wandering     Jogees 
sing : 

Which  lends  once  more  to  wintry  age 
The  greenness  of  its  spring. 

O,  if  these  poor  and  blinded  ones 
In  trustful  patience  wait  to  feel 

O'er  torpid  pulse  and  failing  limb 
A  youthful  freshness  steal ; 

Shall  we,  who  sit  beneath  that  Tree 
Whose   healing    leaves    of   life   are 
shed, 

In  answer  to  the  breath  of  prayer, 
Upon  the  waiting  head ; 

Not  to  restore  our  failing  forms,  _ 
And  build  the  spirit's  broken  shrine, 

But,  on  the  fainting  SOUL  to  shed 
A  light  and  life  divine; 

Shall  we  grow  weary  in  our  watch, 
And  murmur  at  the  long  delay? 

Impatient  of  our  Father's  time 
And  his  appointed  way? 

Or  shall  the  stir  of  outward  things 
Allure  and  claim  the  Christian's  eye, 

When  on  the  heathen  watcher's  ear 
Their  powerless  murmurs  die? 

Alas !  a  deeper  test  of  faith 

Than  prison  cell  or  martyr's  stake, 
The  self-abasing  watchfulness 

Of  silent  prayer  may  make. 


139 


We  gird  us  bravely  to  rebuke 
Our  erring  brother  in  the  wrong, — 

And  in  the  ear  of  Pride  and  Power 
Our  warning  voice  is  strong. 

Easier  to  smite  with  Peter's  sword 
Than  "  watch  one  hour  "  in  hum 
bling  prayer. 
Life's  "  great  things,"  like  the  Syrian 

lord, 
Our  hearts  can  do  and  dare. 

But  oh  !  we  shrink  from  Jordan's  side, 
From  waters  which  alone  can  save ; 

And  murmur  for  Abana's  banks 
And   Pharpar's  brighter  wave. 

O  Thou,  who  in  the  garden's  shade 
Didst  wake  thy  weary  ones  again, 

Who  slumbered  at  that  fearful  hour 
Forgetful  of  thy  pain; 

Bend  o'er  us  now,  as  over  them, 
And    set    our    sleep-bound    spirits 
free, 

Nor  leave  us  slumbering  in  the  watch 
Our  souls  should  keep  with  Thee! 


A   DREAM    OF   SUMMER. 

BLAND  as  the  morning  breath  of  June 

The  southwest  breezes  play; 
And,   through    its     haze,   the   winter 
noon 

Seems  warm  as  summer's  day. 
The  snow-plumed  Angel  of  the  North 

Has  dropped  his  icy  spear; 
Again  the  mossy  earth  looks  forth. 

Again  the  streams  gush  clear. 

The  fox  his  hillside  cell  forsakes, 

The  muskrat  leaves  his  nook, 
The  bluebird  in  the  meadow  brakes 

Is  singing  with  the  brook. 
"  Bear  up,  O  Mother  Nature !  "  cry 

Bird,  breeze,  and  streamlet  free; 
"  Our   winter  voices  prophesy 

Of  summer  davs  to  thee !  " 


So,  in  those  winters  of  the  soul, 

By  bitter  blasts  and  drear 
O'erswept     from    Memory's     frozen 
pole, 

Will  sunny  days  appear. 
Reviving  Hope  and  Faith,  they  show 

The  soul  its  living  powers, 
And  how  beneath  the  winter's  snow 

Lie  germs  of  summer  flowers ! 

The  Night  is  mother  of  the  Day, 

The  Winter  of  the  Spring, 
And  ever  upon  old   Decay 

The  greenest  mosses  cling. 
Behind  the  cloud  the  starlight  lurks, 

Through    showers    the     sunbeams 

fall ; 
For  God,  who  loveth  all  his  works 

Has  left  his  Hope  with  all! 
4th  ist  month,  1847. 


TO  , 

WITH   A  COPY  OF   WOOLMAN*S   JOURNAL. 

"Get    the   writings   of   John  Woolman  by 
heart." — Essays  ofElia. 

MAIDEN  !  with  the  fair  brown  tresses 
Shading  o'er  thy  dreamy  eye, 

Floating  on  thy  thoughtful  forehead 
Cloud  wreaths  of  its  sky. 

Youthful  years  and  maiden  beauty, 
Joy  with  them  should  still  abide, — 

Instinct  take  the  place  of  Duty, 
Love,  not  Reason,  guide. 

Ever  in  the  New  rejoicing, 

Kindly  beckoning  back  the  Old, 

Turning,  with  the  gift  of  Midas, 
All  things  into  gold. 

And  the  passing  shades  of  sadness 
Wearing  even  a  welcome  guise, 

As,  when  some  bright  lake  lies  open 
To  the  sunny  skies, 


140 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Every  wing  of  bird  above  it, 
Every  light  cloud  floating  on, 

Glitters  like  that  flashing  mirror 
In  the  selfsame  sun. 

But  upon  thy  youthful  forehead 
Something  like  a  shadow  lies ; 

And  a  serious  soul  is  looking 
From  thy  earnest  eyes. 

With  an  early  introversion, 
Through   the    forms     of    outward 
things, 

Seeking  for  the  subtle  essence, 
And  the  hidden  springs. 

Deeper  than  the  gilded  surface 
Hath  thy  wakeful. vision  seen, 

Farther  than  the  narrow  present 
Have  thy  journeyings  been. 

Thou  hast  midst  Life's  empty  noises 
Heard  the  solemn  steps  of  Time, 

And  the  low  mysterious  voices 
Of  another  clime. 

All  the  mystery  of  Being 

Hath  upon  thy  spirit  pressed, — 

Thoughts    which,     like     the     Deluge 

wanderer, 
Find  no  place  of  rest: 

That  which  mystic  Plato  pondered, 
That  which  Zeno  heard  with  awe, 

And  the  star-rapt  Zoroaster 
In  his  night-watch  saw. 

From  the  doubt  and  darkness  spring 
ing 

Of  the  dim,  uncertain  Past, 
Moving  to  the  dark  still  shadows 

O'er  the  Future  cast, 

Early  hath  Life's  mighty  question 
Thrilled  within  thy  heart  of  youth, 

With  a  deep  and  strong  beseeching : 
WHAT  and  WHERE  is  TRUTH  ? 

Hollow   creed    and    ceremonial, 
Whence  the  ancient  life  hath  fled, 


Idle  faith  unknown  to  action, 
Dull  and  cold  and  dead. 

Oracles,    whose    wire-worked    mean 
ings, 

Only  wake  a  quiet  scorn, — 
Not  from  these  thy  seeking  spirit 

Hath  its  answer  drawn. 

But,  like  some  tired  child  at  even, 
On  thy  mother  Nature's  breast, 

Thou,  methinks,  art  vainly  seeking 
Truth,  and  peace,  and  rest. 

O'er  that  mother's  rugged  features 
Thou  art  throwing  Fancy's  veil, 

Light  and  soft  as  woven  moonbeams, 
Beautiful  and  frail! 

O'er  the  rough  chart  of  Existence, 
Rocks  of  sin  and  wastes  of  woe, 

Soft  airs   breathe,  and  green  leaves 

tremble, 
And  cool  fountains  flow. 

And  to  thee  an  answer  cometh 
From  the  earth  and  from  the  sky, 

And  to  thee  the  hills  and  waters 
And  the  stars  reply. 

But  a  soul-sufficing  answer 
Hath  no  outward  origin; 

More  than  Nature's  many  voices 
May  be  heard  within. 

Even  as  the  great  Augustine 
Questioned  earth  and  sea  and  sky, 

And  the  dusty  tomes  of  learning 
And  old  poesy. 

But  his  earnest  spirit  needed 
More       than       outward       Nature 
taught,— 

More  than  blest  the  poet's  vision 
Or  the  sage's  thought. 

Only  in  the  gathered  silence 
Of  a  calm  and  waiting  frame 

Light  and  wisdom  as  from  Heaven 
To  the  seeker  came. 


LEGGETT'S  MONUMENT. 


141 


Not  to  ease  and  aimless  quiet 
Doth  that  inward  answer  tend, 

But  to  works  of  love  and  duty 
As  our  beings  end, — 

Not  to  idle  dreams  and  trances, 
Length  of  face,  and  solemn  tone, 

But  to  Faith,  in  daily  striving 
And  performance  shown. 

Earnest  toil  and  strong  endeavor 

Of  a  spirit  which  within 
Wrestles  with  familiar  evil 

And  besetting  sin; 

And  without,  with  tireless  vigor, 
Steady  heart,  and  weapon  strong, 

In  the  power  of  truth  assailing 
Every  form  of  wrong. 

Guided  thus,  how  passing  lovely 
Is  the  track  of  WOOLMAN'S  feet ! 

And  his  brief  and  simple  record 
How  serenely  sweet! 

O'er  life's  humblest  duties  throwing 
Light  the  earthling  never  knew, 

Freshening  all  its  dark  waste  places 
As  with  Hermon's  dew. 

All  which  glows  in  Pascal's  pages, — 
All  which  sainted  Guion  sought, 

Or  the  blue-eyed  German  Rahel 
Half-unconscious  taught : — 

Beauty  such  as  Goethe  pictured, 
Such  as  Shelley  dreamed  of,  shed 

Living  warmth  and  starry  brightness 
Round  that  poor  man's  head. 

Not  a  vain  and  cold  ideal, 
Not  a  poet's  dream  alone, 

But  a  presence  warm  and  real, 
Seen  and  felt  and  known. 

When  the  red  right-hand  of  slaughter 
Moulders  with  the  steel  it  swung, 

When  the  name  of  seer  and  poet 
Dies  on  Memory's  tongue, 


All   bright   thoughts   and   pure   shall 

gather 
Round    that    meek    and    suffering 

one,— 

Glorious,  like  the  seer-seen  angel 
Standing  in  the  sun ! 

Take  the  good  man's  book  and  pon 
der 

What  its  pages  say  to  thee, — 
Blessed  as  the  hand  of  healing 

May  its  lesson  be. 

If  it  only  serves  to  strengthen 
Yearnings  for  a  higher  good, 

For  the  fount  of  living  waters 
And  diviner  food; 

If  the  pride  of  human  reason 
Feels  its  meek  and  still  rebuke, 

Quailing  like  the  eye  of  Peter 
From  the  Just  One's  look! — 

If  with  readier  ear  thou  heedest 
What  the  Inward  Teacher  saith, 

Listening  with  a  willing  spirit 
And  a  childlike  faith, — 

Thou  mayst  live  to  bless  the  giver, 
Who,  himself  but  frail  and  weak, 

Would  at  least  the  highest  welfare 
Of  another  seek; 

And  his  gift,  though  poor  and  lowly 
It  may  seem  to  other  eyes, 

Yet  may  prove  an  angel  holy 
In  a  pilgrim's  guise. 


LEGGETT'S   MONUMENT. 

"  Ye  build  the  tombs  of  the  prophets." 

Holv  Writ. 

YES, — pile  the  marble  o'er  him!     It 

is  well 
That  ye  who  mocked  him   in  his 

long  stern  strife, 
And  planted  in  the  pathway  of  his 

life 

The  ploughshares  of  your  hatred  hot 
from  hell, 


1-12 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Who  clamored  down  the  bold  re 
former  when 

He  pleaded  for  his  captive  fellow- 
men, 

Who    spurned    him    in    the    market 
place,  and  sought 

Within  thy  walls,  St.  Tammany,  to 

bind 

In  party  chains  the  free  and  honest 
thought, 


The  angel  utterance  of  an  upright 

mind, 
Well  it  is  now  that  o'er  his  grave  ye 

raise 
The    stony    tribute    of     your     tardy 

praise, 
For  not  alone  that  pile  shall  tell  to 

Fame 
Of  the  brave   heart   beneath,   but  of 

the  builders'  shame ! 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND    OTHER    POEMS,  1850 


DEDICATION. 

I  WOULD  the  gift  I  offer  here 

Might  graces  from  thy  favor  take, 
And,  seen  through  Friendship's  at- 

•  mosphere, 
On   softened    lines    and    coloring, 

wear 

The  unaccustomed  light  of  beauty,  for 
thy  sake. 

Few  leaves  of  Fancy's  spring   re 
main  : 

But  what  I  have  I  give  to  thee, — 
The  o'er-sunned  bloom  of  summer's 

plain, 

And  paler  flowers,  the  latter  rain 
Calls    from    the    westering    slope    of 
life's  autumnal  lea. 


Above  the  fallen  groves  of  green, 
Where  youth's   enchanted   forest 

stood, 

Dry    root   and   mossed   trunk    be 
tween, 

A  sober  after-growth  is  seen, 
As  springs  the  pine  where  falls  the 
gay-leafed  maple  wood ! 

Yet   birds    will    sing,    and   breezes 

play 

Their   leaf-harps    in   the    sombre 
tree; 


And  through  the  bleak  and  wintry 

day 

It  keeps  its  steady  green  alway,— 
So,  even  my  after-thoughts  may  have 

a  charm  for  thee. 

Art's  perfect  forms  no  moral  need, 

And  beauty  is  its  own  excuse; 
But  for  the  dull  and  flowerless  weed 
Some    healing     virtue     still     must 

plead, 

And  the  rough  ore  must  find  its  hon 
ors  in  its  use. 

So  haply  these,  my  simple  lays 
Of    homely    toil,    may     serve    to 

show 
The   orchard    bloom    and    tasselled 

maize 

That  skirt  and  gladden  duty's  ways, 
The  unsung  beauty  hid  life's  common 
things  below. 

Haply  from  them  the  toiler,  bent 
Above  his  forge  or  plough,  may 

gain 

A  manlier  spirit  of  content, 
And  feel  that  life  is  wisest  spent 
Where    the     strong     working     hand 
makes  strong  the  working  brain. 

The  doom  which  to  the  guilty  pair 
Without  the  walls  of  Eden  came, 
Transforming  sinless  ease  to  care 


THE  SHIP-BUILDERS. 


143 


And  rugged  toil,  no  more  shall  beir 

The  burden  of  old  crime,  or  mark  of 

primal  shame. 

A  blessing  now, — a  curse  no  more ; 
Since  He,  whose  name  we  breathe 

with  awe, 
The      coarse       mechanic       vesture 

wore, — 

A  poor  man  toiling  with  the  poor, 
In  labor,  as   in  prayer,   fulfilling  the 

same  law. 


THE  SHIP-BUILDERS. 

THE  sky  is  ruddy  in  the  east, 

The  earth  is  gray  below, 
And,  spectral  in  the  river-mist, 

The  ship's  white  timbers  show. 
Then   let  the    sounds    of    measured 
stroke 

And  grating  saw  begin; 
The  broad-axe  to  the  gnarled  oak, 

The  mallet  to  the  pin ! 

Hark! — roars    the   bellows,   blast   on 
blast, 

The  sooty  smithy  jars, 
And  fire-sparks,  rising  far  and  fast, 

Are  fading  with  the  stars. 
All  day  for  us  the  smith  shall  stand 

Beside  that  flashing  forge; 
All  day  for  us  his  heavy  hand 

The  groaning  anvil  scourge. 

From  far-off  hills,  the  panting  team 

For  us  is  toiling  near; 
For  us  the  raftsmen  down  the  stream 

Their  island  barges  steer. 
Rings  out  for  us  the  axe-man's  stroke 

In  forests  old  and  still, — 
For  us  the  century-circled  oak 

Falls  crashing  down  his  hill. 

Up  ! — up ! — in  nobler  toil  than  ours 
No  craftsmen  bear  a  part : 

We  make  of  Nature's  giant  powers 
The  slaves  of  human  Art. 

Lay  rib  to  rib  and  beam  to  beam, 
And  drive  the  treenails  free; 


Nor  faithless  joint  nor  yawning  seam 
Shall  tempt  the  searching  sea! 

Where'er  the  keel  of  our  good  ship 

The  sea's  rough  field  shall  plough,— 
Where'er  her  tossing  spars  shall  drip 

With  salt-spray  caught  below,— 
That    ship    must    heed    her    master's 
beck, 

Her  helm  obey  his  hand, 
And  seamen  tread  her  reeling  deck 

As  if  they  trod  the  land. 

Her  oaken  ribs  the  vulture-beak 

Of  Northern  ice  may  peel; 
The  sunken  rock  and  coral  peak 

May  grate  along  her  keel; 
And  know  we  well  the  painted  shell 

We  give  to  wind  and  wave, 
Must  float,  the  sailor's  citadel, 

-Or  sink,  the  sailor's  grave! 

Ho  !— strike  away  the  bars  and  blocks, 

And   set  the  good  ship  free! 
Why  lingers  on  these  dusty  rocks 

The  young  bride  of  the  sea? 
Look!    how    she    moves    adown    the 
grooves, 

In  graceful  beauty  now! 
How  lowly  on  the  breast  she  loves 

Sinks  down  her  virgin  prow! 

God  bless  her !  wheresoe'er  the  breeze 

Her  snowy  wing  shall  fan, 
Aside  the  frozen  Hebrides, 

Or  sultry  Hindostan! 
Where'er,  in  mart  or  on  the  main, 

With  peaceful  flag  unfurled, 
She  helps  to  wind  the  silken  chiin 

Of  commerce  round  the  world  ! 

Speed  on  the  ship!— But  let  her  bear 

No  merchandise  of  sin, 
No  groaning  cargo  of  despair 

Her  roomy  hold  within; 
No  Lethean  drug  for  Eastern  lands, 

Nor  poison-draught  for  ours; 


144 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


But  honest  fruits  of  toiling  hands 
And  Nature's  sun  and  showers. 

Be  hers  the  Prairie's  golden  grain, 

The  Desert's  golden  sand, 
The  clustered  fruits  of  sunny  Spain, 

The  spice  of  Morning-land! 
Her  pathway  on  the  open  main 

May  blessings  follow  free, 
And  glad  hearts  welcome  back  again 

Her  white  sails  from  the  sea! 


THE  SHOEMAKERS. 

Ho!  workers  of  the  old  time  styled 

The  Gentle  Craft  of  Leather ! 
Young  brothers  of  the  ancient  guild, 

Stand  forth  once  more  together ! 
Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  olden  merry  manner! 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling    out   your   blazoned   banner! 

Rap,  rap!  upon  the  well-worn  stone 

How  falls  the  polished  hammer ! 
Rap,   rap!    the  measured   sound   has 
grown 

A  quick  and  merry  clamor. 
Now  shape  the  sole!  now  deftly  curl 

The  glossy  vamp  around  it, 
And  bless  the  while  the  bright-eyed 
girl 

Whose  gentle  fingers  bound  it! 

For  you,  along  the  Spanish  main 

A  hundred  keels  are  ploughing; 
For  you,  the  Indian  on  the  plain 

His    lasso-coil    is   throwing; 
For    you,    deep    glens    with    hemlock 
dark 

The  woodman's  fire  is   lighting; 
For  you,  upon  the  oak's  gray  bark, 

The  woodman's  axe  is  smiting. 

For  you,  from  Carolina's  pine 
The  rosin-gum  is  stealing; 

For  you,  the  dark-eyed  Florentine 
Her  silken  skein  is  reeling; 


For  you,  the  dizzy  goatherd  roams 
His  rugged  Alpine  ledges ; 

For   you,    round    all    her     shepherd 

homes, 
Bloom  England's  thorny  hedges. 

The  foremost  still,  by  day  or  night, 

On  moated  mound  or  heather, 
Where'er  the  need  of  trampled  right 

Brought  toiling  men  together; 
Where   the   free   burghers   from   the 
wall 

Defied  the  mail-clad  master, 
Than  yours,  at   Freedom's  trumpet- 
call, 

No  craftsmen  rallied  faster. 

Let  foplings  sneer,  let  fools  deride, — 

Ye  heed  no  idle  scorner; 
Free  hands  and  hearts  are  still  your 
pride, 

And  duty  done,  your  honor. 
Ye  dare  to  trust,  for  honest  fame, 

The  jury  Time  empanels, 
And  leave  to  truth  each  noble  name 

Which  glorifies  your  annals. 

Thy  songs,  Han  Sachs,  are  living  yet, 

In  strong  and  hearty   German; 
And   Bloomfield's   lay,   and   Gifford's 
wit, 

And  patriot  fame  of  Sherman; 
Still  from  his  book,  a  mystic  seer, 

The  soul  of  Behmen  teaches, 
And  England's  priestcraft  shakes  to 
hear 

Of  Fox's  leathern  breeches. 

The  foot  is  yours ;  where'er  it  falls, 

It  treads  your  well-wrought  leather, 
On  earthern  floor,  in  marble  halls, 

On  carpet,  or  on  heather. 
Still  there  the  sweetest  charm  is  found 

Of  matron  grace  or  vestal's, 
As  Hebe's  foot  bore  nectar  round 

Among  the  old  celestials! 

Rap,  rap! — your  stout  and  bluff  bro- 

gan, 
With  footsteps  slow  and  weary, 


THE  DROVERS. 


145 


May  wander  where  the  sky's  blue  span 
Shuts  down  upon  the  prairie. 

On  Beauty's  foot,  your  slippers  glance, 
By  Saratoga's  fountains, 

Or  twinkle  down  the  summer  dance 
Beneath  the  Crystal  Mountains ! 

The  red  brick  to  the  mason's  hand, 

The  brown  earth  to  the  tiller's, 
The  shoe  in  yours  shall  wealth  com 
mand, 

Like  fairy  Cinderella's ! 
As  they  who  shunned  the  household 
maid 

Beheld  the  crown  upon  her, 
So  all  shall  see  your  toil  repaid 

With  hearth  and  home  and  honor. 

Then  let  the  toast  be  freely  quaffed, 

In  water  cool  and  brimming, — 
"  All  honor  to  the  good  old  Craft, 

Its  merry  men  and  women !  " 
Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  old  time's  pleasant  manner; 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling  out  his  blazoned  banner! 


THE  DROVERS. 

THROUGH  heat  and  cold,  and  shower 
and  sun, 

Still  onward  cheerly  driving! 
There's  life,  alone  in  duty  done, 

And  rest  alone  in  striving. 
But  see !  the  day  is  closing  cool, 

The  woods  are  dim  before  us ; 
The  white  fog  of  the  wayside  pool 

Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 

Our  foot-sore  beasts  are  weary, 
And  through  yon  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery. 
The  landlord  beckons  from  his  door, 

His  beechen  fire  is  glowing; 
These  ample  barns,  with  feed  in  store, 

Are  filled  to  overflowing. 


From  many  a  valley  frowned  across 

By  brows  of  rugged  mountains ; 
From  hillsides  where,  through  spongy 

moss, 

Gush  out  the  river  fountains; 
From  quiet    farm-fields,    green    and 

low, 

And  bright  with  blooming  clover; 
From   vales    of   corn  the  wandering 

crow 
No  richer  hovers  over ; 

Day  after  day  our  way  has  been, 

O'er  many  a  hill  and  hollow; 
By   lake  and   stream,   by   wood   and 
glen, 

Our  stately  drove  we  follow. 
Through  dust-clouds  rising  thick  and 
dun, 

As  smoke  of  battle  o'er  us, 
Their  white  horns  glisten  in  the  sun, 

Like  plumes  and  crests  before  us. 

We  see  them  slowly  climb  the  hill, 

As  slow  behind  it  sinking; 
Or,    thronging    close,    from    roadside 
rill, 

Or  sunny  lakelet,  drinking. 
Now  crowding  in  the  narrow  road, 

In  thick  and  struggling  masses, 
They  glare  upon  the  teamster's  load, 

Or  rattling  coach  that  passes. 

Anon,  with  toss  of  horn  and  tail, 

And  paw  of  hoof,  and  bellow, 
They  leap  some  farmer's  broken  pale, 

O'er  meadow-close  or   fallow. 
Forth   comes  the  startled  goodman; 
forth 

Wife,  children,  house-dog,  sally, 
Till  once  more  on  their  dusty  path 

The  baffled  truants  rally. 

We    drive    no     starvelings,    scraggy 
grown, 

Loose-legged,  and  ribbed  and  bony, 
Like   those   who    grind    their    noses 
down 

On  pastures  bare  and  stony, — 
Lank  oxen,  rough  as  Indian  dogs, 

And  cows  too  lean  for  shadows, 
Disputing  feebly  with   the  frogs 

The  crop  of  saw-grass  meadows ! 


146 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


In  our  good  drove,  so  sleek  and  fair, 

No  bones  of  leanness  rattle ; 
No  tottering   hide-bound  ghosts   are 
there, 

Or  Pharaoh's  evil  cattle. 
Each  stately  beeve  bespeaks  the  hand 

That  fed  him  unrepining; 
The  fatness  of  a  goodly  land 

In  each  dun  hide  is  shining. 

We've  sought  them  where,  in  warm 
est  nooks, 

The  freshest  feed  is  growing, 
By    sweetest    springs    and     clearest 

brooks 

Through  honeysuckle  flowing; 
Wherever  hillsides,  sloping  south, 

Are  bright  with  early  grasses, 
Or,    tracking    green    the     lowland's 

drouth, 
The  mountain  streamlet  passes. 

But  now  the  day  is  closing  cool, 

The  woods  are  dim  before  us, 
The  white  fog  of  the  wayside  pool 

Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 
The  cricket  to  the  frog's  bassoon 

His  shrillest  time  is  keeping; 
The  sickle  of  yon  setting  moon 

The  meadow-mist  is  reaping. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 

Our  footsore  beasts  are  weary, 
And  through  yon  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery. 
To-morrow,  eastward  with  our  charge 

We'll  go  to  meet  the  dawning, 
Ere  yet  the  pines  of  Kearsarge 

Have  seen  the  sun  of  morning. 

When   snow-flakes   o'er    the    frozen 

earth, 

Instead  of  birds,  are  flitting; 
When   children   throng    the   glowing 

hearth, 

And  quiet  wives  are  knitting; 
While  in  the  fire-light    strong    and 

clear 
Young  eyes  of  pleasure  glisten,      k 


To  tales  of  all  we  see  and  hear 
The  ears  of  home  shall  listen. 

By  many  a  Northern  lake  and  hill, 

From  many  a  mountain  pasture, 
Shall  Fancy  play  the  Drover  still, 

And  speed  the  long  night  faster. 
Then  let  us  on,  through  shower  and 
sun, 

And  heat  and  cold,  be  driving; 
There's  life  alone  in  duty  done, 

Ana  rest  alone  in  striving. 


THE  FISHERMEN. 

HURRAH  !  the  seaward  breezes 

Sweep  down  the  bay  amain; 
Heave  up,  my  lads,  the  anchor! 

Run  up  the  sail  again! 
Leave  to  the  lubber  landsmen 

The  rail-car  and  the  steed; 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed. 

From  the  hill-top  looks  the  steeple, 

And  the  lighthouse  from  the  sand; 
And  the  scattered  pines  are  waving 

Their  farewell  from  the  land. 
One  glance,  my  lads,  behind  us, 

For  the  homes  we  leave  one  sigh, 
Ere  we  take  the  change  and  chances 

Of  the  ocean  and  the  sky. 

Now,  brothers,  for  the  icebergs 

Of  frozen  Labrador, 
Floating  spectral  in  the  moonshine, 

Along  the  low,  black  shore! 
Where  like  snow  the  gannet's  feathers 

On  Brador's  rocks  are  shed, 
And  the  noisy  murr  are  flying, 

Like  black   scuds,    overhead; 

Where  in  mist  the  rock  is  hiding, 
And  the  sharp  reef  lurks  below, 
And  the  white  squall  smites  in  sum 
mer, 

And  the  autumn  tempests  blow; 
Where,  through  gray  and  rolling  va 
por, 
From  evening  unto  morn, 


THE   HUSKERS. 


147 


A  thousand  boats  are  hailing, 
Horn  answering  unto  horn. 

Hurrah!  for  the  Red  Island, 

With  the  white  cross  on  its  crown! 
Hurrah!  for  Meccatina, 

And  its  mountains  bare  and  brown ! 
Where  the   Caribou's  tall  antlers 

O'er  the  dwarf-wood  freely  toss, 
And  the  footstep  of  the  Mickmack 

Has  no  sound  upon  the  moss. 

There  we  '11  drop  our  lines,  and  gather 

Old  Ocean's  treasures  in, 
Where'er  the  mottled  mackerel 

Turns  up  a  steel-dark  fin. 
The  sea  's  our  field  of  harvest, 

Its  scaly  tribes  our  grain; 
We  '11  reap  the  teeming  waters 

As  at  home  they  reap  the  plain! 

Our  r  «t  hands  spread  the  carpet, 

.d  light  the  hearth  of  home ; 
rrom  our  fish,  as  in  the  old  time, 

The  silver  coin  shall  come. 
As  the  demon  fled  the  chamber 

Where  the  fish  of  Tobit  lay, 
So  ours  from  all  our  dwellings 

Shall  frighten  Want  away. 


Though  the  mist  upon  our  jackets 

In  the  bitter  air  congeals 
And  our  lines  wind  stiff  and  slowly 

From  off  the  frozen  reels ; 
Though  the  fog  be  dark  around  us, 

And  the  storm  blow  high  and  loud, 
We  will  whistle  down  the  wild  wind, 

And  laugh  beneath  the  cloud ! 


In  the  darkness  as  in  daylight, . 

On  the  water  as  on  land, 
God's  eye  is  looking  on  us, 

And  beneath  us  is  his  hand! 
Death  will  find  us  soon  or  later, 

On  the  deck  or  in  the  cot; 
And  we  cannot  meet  him  better 

Than  in  working  out  our  lot. 


Hurrah ! — hurrah ! — the  west-wind 

Comes  freshening  down  the  bay, 
The  rising  sails  are  filling, — 

Give  way,  my  lads,  give  way! 
Leave  the  coward    landsman    cling 
ing 

To  the  dull  earth,  like  a  weed,— 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed! 


THE  HUSKERS. 

IT  was  late  in  mild  October,  and  the  long  autumnal  rain 
Had  left  the  summer  harvest-fields  all  green  with  grass  again ; 
The  first  sharp  frosts  had  fallen,  leaving  all  the  woodlands  gay 
With  the  hues  of   summer's  rainbow,  or  the  meadow-flowers  of  May. 

Through  a  thin,  dry  mist,  that  morning,  the  sun  rose  broad  and  red. 

At  first  a  rayless  disk  of  fire,  he  brightened  as  he  sped; 

Yet,  even  his  noontide  glory  fell  chastened  and  subdued, 

On  the  cornfields  and  the  orchards,  and  softly  pictured  wood. 


And  all  that  quiet  afternoon,  slow  sloping  to  the  night, 
He  wove  with  golden  shuttle  the  haze  with   yellow  light; 
Slanting  through  the  painted  beeches,  he  glorified  the  hill; 
And,  beneath  it,  pond  and  meadow  lay  brighter,  greener  still. 


148  SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

And  shouting  boys   in  woodland  haunts   caught  glimpses  of  that   sky, 
Flecked  by  the  many-tinted  leaves,  and  laughed,  they  knew  not  why; 
And  school-girls,  gay  with  aster-flowers,  beside  the  meadow  brooks, 
Mingled  the  glow  of  autumn  with  the  sunshine  of  sweet  looks. 

From  spire  and  barn,  looked  westerly  the  patient  weathercocks ; 
But  even  the  birches  on  the  hill  stood  motionless  as  rocks. 
No  sound  was  in  the  woodlands,  save  the  squirrel's  dropping  shell, 
And  the  yellow  leaves  among  the  boughs,  low  rustling  as  they  fell. 

The  summer  grains  were  harvested;  the  stubble-fields  lay  dry, 
Where  June  winds  rolled,  in  light  and  shade,  the  pale  green  waves  of  rye ; 
But  still,  on  gentle  hill-slopes,  in  valleys  fringed  with  wood, 
Ungathered,  bleaching  in  the  sun,  the  heavy  corn  crop  stood. 

Bent  low,  by  autumn's  wind  and  rain,  through  husks  that,  dry  and  sere, 
Unfolded  from  their  ripened  charge,  shone  out  the  yellow  ear ; 
Beneath,  the  turnip  lay  concealed,  in  many  a  verdant  fold, 
And  glistened  in  the  slanting  light  the  pumpkin's  sphere  of  gold. 

There  wrought  the  busy  harvesters;  and  many  a  creaking  wain 
Bore  slowly  to  the  long  barn-floor  its  load  of  husk  and  grain ; 
Till  broad  and  red,  as  when  he  rose,  the  sun  sank  down,  at  last, 
And  like  a  merry  guest's  farewell,  the  day  in  brightness  passed. 

And  lo!  as  through  the  western  pines,  on  meadow,  stream,  and  pond, 
Flamed  the  red  radiance  of  a  sky,  set  all  afire  beyond, 
Slowly  o'er  the  eastern  sea-bluffs  a  milder  glory  shone, 
And  the  sunset  and  the  moonrise  were  mingled  into  one! 

As  thus  into  the  quiet  night  the  twilight  lapsed  away, 
And  deeper  in  the  brightening  moon  the  tranquil  shadows  lay; 
From  many  a  brown  old  farm-house,  and  hamlet  without  name, 
Their  milking  and  their  home-tasks  done,  the  merry  huskers  came. 

Swung  o'er  the  heaped-up  harvest,  from  pitchforks  in  the  mow, 

Shone  dimly  down  the  lanterns  on  the  pleasant  scene  below ; 

The  growing  pile  of  husks  behind,  the  golden  ears  before, 

And  laughing  eyes  and  busy  hands  and  brown  cheeks  glimmering  o'er. 

Half  hidden  in  a  quiet  nook,  serene  of  look  and  heart, 
Talking  their  old  times  over,  the  old  men  sat  apart; 
While,  up  and  down  the  unhusked  pile,  or  nestling  in  its  shade, 
At  hide-and-seek,  with  laugh  and  shout,  the  happy  children  played. 

Urged  by  the  good  host's  daughter,  a  maiden  young  and  fair, 
Lifting  to  light  her  sweet  blue  eyes  and  pride  of  soft  brown  hair, 
The  master  of  the  village  school,  sleek  of  hair  and  smooth  of  tongue, 
To  the  quaint  tune  of  some  old  psalm,  a  husking-ballad  sung. 


THE  LUMBERMEN. 


149 


THE  CORN-SONG. 

HEAP  high  the  farmer's  wintry  hoard  ! 

Heap  high  the  golden  corn! 
No  richer  gift  has  Autumn  poured 

From  out  her  lavish  horn! 

Let  other  lands,  exulting,  glean 

The  apple  from  the  pine, 
The  orange  from  its  glossy  green, 

The  cluster  from  the  vine; 

We  better  love  the  hardy  gift 

Our  rugged  vales  bestow, 
To   cheer   us    when   the   storm   shall 
drift 

Our   harvest-fields  with   snow. 

Through  vales  of  grass  and  meads  of 

flowers, 

Our  ploughs  their  furrows  made, 
While  on  the  hills  the  sun  and  show 
ers 
Of  changeful  April  played. 

We  dropped  the   seed  o'er  hill  and 

plain, 

Beneath  the  sun  of  May, 
And   frightened   from   our    sprouting 

grain 
The  robber  crows  away. 

All  through  the  long,  bright  days  of 
June 

Its  leaves  grew  green  and  fair, 
And  waved  in  hot  midsummer's  noon 

Its  soft  and  yellow  hair. 

And  now,  with  autumn's  moonlit  eves, 
Its  harvest-time  has  come, 

We  pluck  away  the  frosted  leaves, 
And  bear  the  treasure  home. 

There,  richer  than  the  fabled  gift 

Apollo  showered  of  old, 
Fair  hands  the  broken  grain  shall  sift, 

And  knead  its  meal  of  gold. 

Let  vapid  idlers  loll  in  silk 
Around  their  costly  board; 

Give  us  the  bowl  of  samp  and  milk, 
By  homespun  beauty  poured! 


Where'er  the  wide  old  kitchen  hearth 

Sends  up  its  smoky  curls, 
Who  will  not  thank  the  kindly  earth, 

And  bless  our  farmer  girls! 

Then   shame   on   all   the   proud   and 
vain, 

Whose  folly  laughs  to  scorn 
The  blessing  of  our  hardy  grain, 

Our  wealth  of  golden  corn ! 

Let  earth  withhold  her  goodly  root, 
Let  mildew  blight  the  rye, 

Give  to  the  worm  the  orchard's  fruit, 
The  wheat-field  to  the  fly: 

But  let  the  good  old  crop  adorn 
The  hills  our  fathers  trod; 

Still  let  us,  for  his  golden  corn, 
Send  up  our  thanks  to  God! 


THE  LUMBERMEN. 

WILDLY  round  our  woodland  quarters, 

Sad- voiced  Autumn  grieves; 
Thickly  down  these   swelling   waters 

Float  his  fallen  leaves. 
Through  the  tall  and  naked  timber, 

Column-like  and  old, 
Gleam  the  sunsets  of  November, 

From  their  skies  of  gold. 

O'er  us,  to  the  southland  heading, 

Screams  the  gray  wild-goose; 
On  the  night-frost  sounds  the  tread 
ing 

Of  the  brindled  moose. 
Noiseless  creeping,  while  we're  sleep 
ing, 

Frost  his  task-work  plies ; 
Soon,  his  icy  bridges  heaping, 

Shall  our  log-piles  rise. 

When,    with    sounds     of     smothered 

thunder, 

On  some  night  of  rain, 
Lake  and  river  break  asunder 

Winter's  weakened  chain, 
Down  the  wild  March  flood  shall  bear 

them 
To  the  saw-mill's  wheel, 


150 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Or  where  Steam,  the  slave,  shall  tear 

them 
With  his  teeth  of  steel. 

Be  it  starlight,  be  it  moonlight, 

In  these  vales  below, 
When  the  earliest  beams  of  sunlight 

Streak  the  mountain's  snow, 
Crisps  the  hoar-frost,  keen  and  early, 

To  our  hurrying  feet, 
And  the  forest  echoes  clearly 

All  our  blows  repeat. 

WThere  the  crystal  Ambijejis 

Stretches  broad  and  clear, 
And  Millnoket's  pine-black  ridges 

Hide  the  browsing  deer: 
Where,  through  lakes  and  wide  mo- 

•  rasses, 

Or  through  rocky  walls, 
Swift  and  strong,  Penobscot  passes 

White  with  foamy  falls; 

Where,  through  clouds,  are  glimpses 
given 

Of  Katahdin's  sides,— 
Rock  and  forest  piled  to  heaven, 

Torn  and  ploughed  by  slides ! 
Far  below,  the  Indian  trapping, 

In  the  sunshine  warm; 
Far  above,  the  snow-cloud  wrapping 

Half  the  peak  in  storm! 

Where  are  mossy  carpets  better 

Than  the  Persian  weaves, 
And  than  Eastern  perfumes  sweeter 

Seem  the  fading  leaves ; 
And  a  music  wild  and  solemn, 

From  the  pine-tree's  height, 
Rolls  its  vast  and  sea-like  volume 

On  the  wind  of  night; 

Make  we  here  our  camp  of  winter; 

And,  through  sleet  and  snow, 
Pitchy  knot  and  beechen   splinter 

On  our  hearth  shall  glow. 
Here,  with  mirth  to  lighten  duty, 

We  shall  lack  alone 
Woman's  smile  and  girlhood's  beauty, 

Childhood's  lisping  tone. 


But  their  hearth  is  brighter  burning 

For  our  toil  to-day; 
And  the  welcome  of  returning 

Shall  our  loss  repay, 
When,  like  seamen  from  the  waters, 

From  the  woods  we  come, 
Greeting  sisters,  wives,  and  daughters, 

Angels  of  our  home ! 


Not  for  us  the  measured  ringing 

From  the  village  spire, 
Not  for  us  the  Sabbath  singing 

Of  the  sweet-voiced  choir : 
Ours  the  old,  majestic  temple, 

Where  God's  brightness  shines 
Down  the  dome  so  grand  and  ample, 

Propped  by  lofty  pines! 


Through   each   branch-enwoven   sky 
light, 

Speaks  He  in  the  breeze, 
As  of  old  beneath  the  twilight 

Of  lost  Eden's  trees  ! 
For  his  ear,  the  inward  feeling 

Needs  no  outward  tongue; 
He  can  see  the  spirit  kneeling 

While  the  axe  is  swung. 


Heeding  truth  alone,  and  turning 

From  the  false  and  dim, 
Lamp  of  toil  or  altar  burning 

Are  alike  to  Him. 

Strike,     then,     comrades ! — Trade     is 
waiting 

On  our  rugged  toil ; 
Far  ships  waiting  for  the  freighting 

Of  our  woodland  spoil ! 


Ships,  whose  traffic  links  these  high 
lands, 

Bleak  and  cold,  of  ours, 
With  the  citron-planted  islands 

Of  a  clime  of  flowers; 
To  our  frosts  the  tribute  bringing 

Of  eternal  heats ; 
In  our  lap  of  winter  flinging 

Tropic  fruits  and  sweets. 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA. 


r.i 


Cheerly,  on  the  axe  of  labor, 

Let  the  sunbeams  dance, 
Better  than  the  flash  of  sabre 

Or  the  gleam  of  lance! 
Strike! — With  every  blow  is  given 

Freer  sun  and  sky, 
And  the  long-hid  earth  to  heaven 

Looks,   with   wondering   eye! 

Loud  behind  us  grow  the  murmurs 

Of  the  age  to  come; 
Clang  of  smiths,  and  tread  of  farm 
ers, 

Bearing  harvest  home! 
Here  her  virgin  lap  with  treasures 

Shall  the  green  earth  fill ; 
Waving  wheat  and  golden  maize-ears 

Crown  each  beechen  hill. 

Keep  who  will  the  city's  alleys, 
Take  the  smooth-shorn  plain, — 

Give  to  us  the  cedar  valleys, 
Rocks  and  hills  of  Maine! 


In  our  North-land,  wild  and  woody, 

Let  us  still  have  part : 
Rugged  nurse  and  mother  sturdy, 

Hold  us  to  thy  heart! 

O,  our  free  hearts  beat  the  warmer 

For  thy  breath  of  snow; 
And  our  tread  is  all  the  firmer 

For  thy  rocks  below. 
Freedom,  hand  in  hand  with  labor, 

Walketh  strong  and  brave ; 
On  the  forehead  of  his  neighbor 

No  man  writeth  Slave ! 

Lo,  the  day  breaks!  old  Katahdin's 

Pine-trees  show  its  fires, 
While  from  these  dim  forest  gardens 

Rise  their  blackened  spires. 
Up,  my  comrades !  up  and  doing ! 

Manhood's   rugged  play 
Still  renewing,  bravely  hewing 

Through  the  world  our  way! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA. 

SPEAK  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking  northward  far  away, 
O'er  the  camp  of  the  invaders,  o'er  the  Mexican  array, 
Who  is  losing?  who  is  winning?  are  they  far  or  come  they  near? 
Look  abroad,  and  tell  us,  sister,  whither  rolls  the  storm  we  hear. 

"  Down  the  hills  of  Angostura  still  the  storm  of  battle  rolls ; 
Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying;  God  have  mercy  on  their  souls!" 
Who  is  losing?  who  is  winning? — "  Over  hill  and  over  plain, 
I  see  but  smoke  of  cannon  clouding  through  the  mountain  rain." 

Holy  Mother !  keep  our  brothers !    Look,  Ximena,  look  once  more. 

"  Still  I  see  the  fearful  whirlwind  rolling  darkly  as  before, 

Bearing  on,  in  strange  confusion,  friend  and  foeman,  foot  and  horse, 

Like  some  wild  and  troubled  torrent  sweeping  down  its  mountain  course." 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena !    "  Ah !  the  smoke  has  rolled  away ; 
And  I  see  the  Northern  rifles  gleaming  down  the  ranks  of  gray. 
Hark!  that  sudden  blast  of  bugles!  there  the  troop  of  Minpn  wheels; 
There  the  Northern  horses  thunder,  with  the  cannon  at  their  heels. 


1152'  MISCELLANEOUS. 


"  Jesu,  pity !  how  it  thickens !  now  retreat  and  now  advance ! 

Right  against  the  blazing  cannon  shivers  Puebla's  charging  lance ! 

Down  they  go,  the  brave  young  riders;  horse  and  foot  together  fall; 

Like  a  ploughshare_in  the  fallow,  through  them  ploughs  the  Northern  ball." 

Nearer~canfe~the~storm~and  nearer,  rolling  fast  and  frightful  on: 
Speak,  Ximena;  speak  and  tell  us,  who  has  lost,  and  who  has  won? 
"  Alas  !  alas  !  I  know  not ;  friend  and  foe  together  fall, 
O'er  the  dying  rush  the  living :  pray,  my  sisters,  for  them  all ! 

"  Lo !  the  wind  the~smoke  is  lifting :  Blessed  Mother,  save  my  brain ! 
I  can  see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly  out  from  heaps  of  slain. 
Now  they  stagger,  blind  and  bleeding ;  now  they  fall,  and  strive  to  rise ; 
Hasten,  sisters,  haste  and  save  them,  lest  they  die  before  our  eyes ! 

"  O  my  heart's  love !  O  my  dear  one !  lay  thy  poor  head  on  my  knee : 
Dost  thou  know  the  lips  that  kiss  thee?    Canst  thou  hear  me?  canst  thou  see? 
O  my  husband,  brave  and  gentle !    O  my  Bernal,  look  once  more 
On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee!     Mercy!  mercy!  all  is  o'er!  " 

Dry  thy  tears,  my  poor  Ximena ;  lay  thy  dear  one  down  to  rest ; 
Let  his  hands  be  meekly  folded,  lay  the  cross  upon  his  breast ; 
Let  his  dirge  be  sung  hereafter,  and  his  funeral  masses  said : 
To-day,  thou  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living  ask  thy  aid. 

Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and  young,  a  soldier  lay, 
Torn  with  shot  and  pierced  with  lances,  bleeding  slow  his  life  away; 
But,  as  tenderly  before  him,  the  lorn  Ximena  knelt, 
She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his  pistol-belt. 

With  a  stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she  turned  away  her  head ; 

With  a  sad  and  bitter  feeling  looked  she  back  upon  her  dead ; 

But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning,  and  his  struggling  breath  of  pain, 

And  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his  parching  lips  again. 

Whispered  low  the  dying  soldier,  pressed  her  hand  and  faintly  smiled : 
Was  that  pitying  face  his  mother's?  did  she  watch  beside  her  child? 
All  his  stranger  words  with  meaning  her  woman's  heart  supplied ; 
With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  "  Mother !  "  murmured  he,  and  died ! 

"  A  bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy,  who  led  thee  forth, 
From  some  gentle,  sad-eyed  mother,  weeping,  lonely,  in  the  North !  " 
Spake  the  mournful  Mexic  woman,  as  she  laid  him  with  her  dead, 
And  turned  to  soothe  the  living,  and  bind  the  wounds  which  bled. 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena !    "  Like  a  cloud  before  the  wind 
Rolls  the  battle  down  the  mountains,  leaving  blood  and  death  behind ; 
Ah !  they  plead  in  vain  for  mercy ;  in  the  dust  the  wounded  strive ; 
Hide  your  faces,  holy  angels !  oh  thou  Christ  of  God,  forgive !  " 


BARCLAY   OF  URY. 


15:5 


Sink,  O  Night,  among  thy  mountains!  let  the  cool,  gray  shadows  fall; 
Dying  brothers,  fighting  demons,  drop  thy  curtain  over  ail! 
Through  the  thickening  winter  twilight,  wide  apart  the  battle  rolled, 
In  its  sheath  the  sabre  rested,  and  the  cannon's  lips  grew  cold. 

But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their  holy  task  pursued, 

Through  that  long,  dark  night  of  sorrow,  worn  and  faint  and  lacking  food 

Over  weak  and  suffering  brothers,  with  a  tender  care  they  hung, 

And  the  dying  foeman  blessed  them  in  a  strange  and  Northern  tongue. 

Not  wholly  lost,  O  Father!  is  this  evil  world  of  ours; 
Upward,  through  it  blood  and  ashes,  spring  afresh  the  Eden  flowers; 
From  its  smoking  hell  of  battle,  Love  and  Pity  send  their  prayer, 
And  still  thy  white-winged  angels  hover  dimly  in  our  air ! 


FORGIVENESS. 

MY  heart  was  heavy,  for  its  trust  had 

been 
Abused,  its  kindness  answered  with 

foul  wrong; 

So,  turning  gloomily  from  my  fellow- 
men, 
One  summer  Sabbath  day  I  strolled 

among 

The  green  mounds  of  the  village  bur 
ial-place  ; 
Where,  pondering  how  all  human 

love  and  hate 
Find  one  sad  level;  and  how,  soon 

or  late, 
Wronged  and  wrongdoer,  each  with 

meekened  face, 
And  cold  hands  folded  over  a  still 

heart, 

Pass  the  green  threshold  of  our  com 
mon  grave, 
Whither  all  footsteps  tend,  whence 

none  depart, 
Awed    for    myself,    and   pitying   my 

race, 
Our  common  sorrow,  like  a  mighty 

wave, 

Swept  all  my  pride  away,  and  trem 
bling  I  forgave! 


BARCLAY  OF  URY. 

UP  the  streets  of  Aberdeen, 
By  the  kirk  and  college  green, 

Rode  the  Laird  of  Ury; 
Close  behind  him,  close  beside, 
Foul  of  mouth  and  evil-eyed, 

Pressed  the  mob  in  fury. 

Flouted  him  the  drunken  churl, 
Jeered  at  him  the  serving  girl, 

Prompt  to  please  her  master; 
And  the  begging  carlin,  late 
Fed  and  clothed  at  Ury's  gate, 

Cursed  him  as  he  passed  her. 

Yet,  with  calm  and  stately  mien, 
Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen 

Came  he  slowly  riding; 
And,  to  all  he  saw  and  heard, 
Answering  not  with  bitter  word, 

Turning  not  for  chiding. 

Came    a     troop     with    broadswords 

swinging, 
Bits  and  bridles  sharply  ringing, 

Loose  and  free  and  froward; 
Quoth    the    foremost,     "  Ride     him 
down! 


154 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Push  him!  prick  him!    through    the 

town 
Drive  the  Quaker  coward !  " 

But  from  out  the  thickening  crowd 
Cried  a  sudden  voice  and  loud: 

"Barclay!   Ho!   a   Barclay!" 
And  the  old  man  at  his  side 
Saw  a  comrade,  battle  tried, 

Scarred  and  sun-burned  darkly; 

Who  with  ready  weapon  bare, 
Fronting  to  the  troopers  there, 

Cried  aloud :  '  God  save  us, 
Call  ye  coward  him  who  stood 
Ankle  deep  in  Lutzen's  blood, 

With  the  brave  Gustavus  ?  " 

"Nay,  I  do  not  need  thy  sword, 
Comrade  mine,"  said  Ury's  lord; 

"  Put  it  up,  I  pray  thee : 
Passive  to  his  holy  will, 
Trust  I  in  my  Master  still, 

Even  though  he  slay  me. 

"Pledges  of  thy  love  and  faith, 
Proved  on  many  a  field  of  death, 

Not  by  me  are  needed." 
Marvelled  much  that  henchman  bold, 
That  his  laird,  so  stout  of  old, 

Now  so  meekly  pleaded. 

"  Woe's  the  day !  "  he  sadly  said, 
With  a  slowly-shaking  head, 

And  a  look  of  pity; 
"Ury's  honest  lord  reviled, 
Mock  of  knave  and  sport  of  child, 

In  his  own  good  city ! 

"  Speak  the  word,  and,  master  mine, 
As  we  charged  on  Tilly's  line, 

And  his  Walloon  lancers, 
Smiting   through    their    midst    we  '11 

teach 
Civil  look  and  decent  speech 

To  these  boyish  prancers !  " 

"Marvel  not,  mine  ancient  friend, 
Like  beginning,  like  the  end  "  :• 
Quoth  the  Laird  of  Ury, 


'  Is  the  sinful  servant  more 
Than  his  gracious  Lord  who  bore 
Bonds  and  stripes  in  Jewry? 

'  Give  me  joy  that  in  his  name 
I  can  bear,  with  patient  frame, 

All  these  vain  ones  offer; 
While  for  them  He  suffereth  long, 
Shall  I  answer  wrong  with  wrong, 

Scoffing  with  the  scoffer? 

'  Happier  I,  with  loss  of  all, 
Hunted,  outlawed,  held  in  thrall, 

With  few  friends  to  greet  me, 
Than  when    reeve    and    squire  were 

seen, 
Riding  out  from  Aberdeen, 

With  bared  heads  to  meet  me. 

"When  each  goodwife,  o'er  and  o'er. 
Blessed  me  as  I  passed  her  door ; 

And  the  snooded  daughter, 
Through     her      casement      glancing 

down, 
Smiled  on  him  who  bore  renown 

From  red  fields  of  slaughter. 

"  Hard  to  feel  the  stranger's  scoff, 
Hard  the  old  friend's  falling  off, 

Hard  to  learn  forgiving: 
But  the  Lord  his  own  rewards, 
And  his  love  with  theirs  accords, 

Warm  and  fresh  and  living. 

"  Through     this     dark    and     stormy 

night 
Faith  beholds  a  feeble  light 

Up  the  blackness   streaking ; 
Knowing  God's  own  time  is  best, 
In  a  patient  hope  I  rest 

For  the  full  day-breaking !  " 

So  the  Laird  of  Ury  said, 
Turning  slow  his  horse's  head 

Towards  the  Tolbooth  prison, 
Where,  through  iron  grates,  he  heard 
Poor  disciples  of  the  Word 

Preach  of  Christ  arisen! 


When  the  breaking  day  is  flushing 
All  the  East,  and  light  is  gushing 
Upward  through  the  horizon's  haze, 
Sheaf-like,  with  its  thousand  rays. 


WHAT  THE  VOICE  SAID. 


165 


Not  in  vain,  Confessor  old, 
Unto  us  the  tale  is  told 

Of  thy  day  of  trial; 
Every  age  on  him,  who  strays 
From  its  broad  and  beaten  ways, 

Pours  its  sevenfold  vial. 

Happy  he  whose  inward  ear 
Angel  comfortings  can  hear, 

O'er  the  rabble's  laughter ; 
And,  while  Hatred's  fagots  burn, 
Glimpses  through  the  smoke  discern 

Of  the  good  hereafter. 

Knowing  this,  that  never  yet 
Share  of  Truth  was  vainly  set 

In  the  world's  wide  fallow; 
After  hands  shall  sow  the  seed, 
After  hands  from  hill  and  mead 

Reap  the  harvests  yellow. 

Thus,  with  somewhat  of  the  Seer, 
Must  the  moral  pioneer 

From  the  Future  borrow ; 
Clothe    the    waste    with    dreams  of 

grain, 
And,   on  midnight's   sky  of   rain, 

Paint  the  golden  morrow! 


WHAT  THE  VOICE  SAID. 

MADDENED  by  Earth's  wrong  and  evil, 
"  Lord !  "  I  cried  in  sudden  ire, 

"From  thy  right  hand,  clothed  with 

thunder, 
Shake  the  bolted  fire! 

"Love  is  lost,  and  Faith  is  dying; 

With  the  brute  the  man  is  sold ; 
And  the  dropping  blood  of  labor 

Hardens  into  gold. 

"  Here  the  dying  wail  of  Famine, 
There  the  battle's  groan  of  pain; 

And,  in  silence,  smooth-face  Mammon 
Reaping  men  like  grain. — 


" '  Where  is  God,  that  we  should  fear 
Him?' 

Thus  the  earth-born  Titans  say; 
'  God  !  if  thou  art  living,  hear  us  ! ' 

Thus  the  weak  ones  pray." 

"  Thou,  the  patient  Heaven  upbraid 
ing," 

Spake  a  solemn  Voice  within ; 
"  Weary  of  our  Lord's  forbearance, 

Art  thou  free  from  sin? 

"  Fearless  brow  to  Him  uplifting, 
Canst  thou  for  his  thunders  call, 

Knowing  that  to  guilt's  attraction 
Evermore  they  fall? 

"  Know'st  thou  not  all  germs  of  evil 
In  thy  heart  await  their  time? 

Not  thyself,  but  God's  restraining, 
Stays  their  growth  of  crime. 

"  Couldst  thou  boast,  O  child  of 
weakness ! 

O'er  the  sons  of  wrong  and  strife, 
Were  their  strong  temptations  planted 

In  thy  path  of  life? 

"  Thou  hast  seen  two  streamlets  gush 
ing 

From  one  fountain,  clear  and  free, 
But  by  widely  varying  channels 

Searching  for  the  sea. 

"Glideth  one  through  greenest  valleys, 
Kissing  them  with  lips 


roaring 


One,  mad 
tains, 
Stagnates  at  their  feet. 


still 
down  the 


sweet ; 
moun- 


"  Is  it  choice  whereby  the  Parsee 
Kneels  before  his  mother's  fire? 

In  his  black  tent  did  the  Tartar 
Choose  his  wandering  sire? 

"  He  alone,  whose  hand  is  bounding 
Human  power  and  human  will, 

Looking    through    each    soul's    sur 
rounding, 
Knows  its  good  or  ill. 


156 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


"For  thyself,  while  wrong  and  sor 
row 

Make  to  thee  their  strong  appeal, 
Coward  wert  thou  not  to  utter 

What  the  heart  must  feel. 

"  Earnest  words  must  needs  be  spoken 
When   the   warm   heart   bleeds    or 
burns 

With  its  scorn  of  wrong,  or  pity 
For  the  wronged,  by  turns. 

"  But,  by  all  thy  nature's  weakness, 
Hidden  faults  and  follies  known, 

Be  thou,  in  rebuking  evil, 
Conscious  of  thine  own. 

"  Not  the  less  shall  stern-eyed  Duty 
To  thy  lips  her  trumpet  set, 

But  with  harsher  blasts  shall  mingle 
Waitings  of  regret." 

Cease  not,  Voice  of  holy  speaking, 
Teacher  sent  of  God,  be  near, 

Whispering   through    the    day's   cool 

silence, 
Let  my  spirit  hear ! 

So,  when  thoughts  of  evil-doers 
Waken  scorn,  or  hatred  move, 

Shall  a  mournful  fellow-feeling 
Temper  all  with  love. 


TO   DELAWARE. 

[Written  during  the  discussion  in  the  Legis 
lature  of  that  State,  in  the  winter  of  1846-47,  of 
a  bill  for  the  abolition  of  slavery.] 

THRICE  welcome  to  thy  sisters  of  the 

East, 
To  the  strong  tillers  of  a  rugged 

home, 
With  _  spray-wet    locks    to    Northern 

winds  released, 
And  hardy  feet  o'erswept  by  ocean's 

foam; 
And    to    the   young   nymphs    of   the 

golden  West, 


Whose     harvest     mantles,     fringed 

with  prairie  bloom, 
Trail  in  the  sunset, — O  redeemed  and 

blest, 
To  the  warm  welcome  of  thy  sisters 

come! 

Broad   Pennsylvania,  down  her  sail- 
white  bay 
Shall  give  thee  joy,  and  Jersey  from 

her  plains, 
And  the  great  lakes,  where  echo,  free 

alway, 
Moaned  never  shoreward  with  the 

clank  of  chains, 
Shall  weave  new   sun-bows   in  their 

tossing  spray, 
And    all    their    waves    keep    grateful 

holiday. 
And,    smiling    on    thee    through    her 

mountain  rains, 
Vermont  shall  bless  thee;  and  the 

Granite  peaks, 
And   vast  Katahdin  o'er  his   woods, 

shall  wear 
Their    snow-crowns   brighter    in   the 

cold  keen  air; 
And      Massachusetts,      with      her 

rugged  cheeks 
O'errmTwith  grateful  tears,  shall  turn 

to  thee, 
When,  at  thy  bidding,  the  electric 

wire 
Shall   tremble  northward   with   its 

words  of  fire; 

Glory   and   praise    to    God!    another 
State  is  free ! 


WORSHIP. 

"  Pure  religion,  and  undefiled,  before  God 
and  the  Father  is  this:  To  visit  the  widows  and 
the  fatherless  in  their  affliction,  and  to  keep 
himself  unspotted  from  the  world.— James\.  27. 

THE  Pagan's  myths  through  marble 

lips  are  spoken, 

And  ghosts  of  old  Beliefs  still  flit 
and  moan 


WORSHIP. 


157 


Round  fane  and  altar  overthrown  and 

broken, 

O'er  tree-grown  barrow  and  gray 
ring  of  stone. 

Blind  Faith  had  martyrs  in  those  old 

high  places, 

The  Syrian  hill  grove  and  the  Dru 
id's  wood, 
With  mother's  offering,  to  the  Fiend's 

embraces, 

Bone  of  their  bone,  and  blood  of 
their  own  blood. 


Red    altars,    kindling    through    that 

night  of  error, 
Smoked  with  warm  blood  beneath 

the  cruel  eye 
Of   lawless    Power    and    sanguinary 

Terror, 

Throned  on  the  circle  of  a  pitiless 
sky; 


Beneath  whose  baleful  shadow,  over 
casting 
All    heaven    above,    and    blighting 

earth  below, 
The  scourge  grew  red,  the  lip  grew 

pale  with  fasting, 

And  man's  oblation  was   his   fear 
and  woe! 


Then  through  great  temples  swelled 

the  dismal  moaning 
Of  dirge-like  music  and  sepulchral 

prayer ; 

Pale  wizard  priests,  o'er  occult  sym 
bols  droning, 

Swung   their  white  censers  in  the 
burdened  air : 


As  if  the  pomp  of  rituals,  and  the 

savor 

Of  gums  and  spices  could  the  Un 
seen  One  please; 

As  if  his  ear  could  bend,  with  child 
ish  favor, 

To  the  poor  flattery  of  the  organ 
keys ! 


Feet    red    from    war-fields    trod    the 

church  aisles  holy, 
With  trembling  reverence:  and  the 

oppressor  there, 
Kneeling  before  his  priest,  abased  and 

lowly, 

Crushed  human  hearts  beneath  his 
knee  of  prayer. 

Not  such  the   service  the  benignant 

Father 
Requireth  at  his  earthly  children's 

hands : 
Not  the  poor  offering  of  vain  rites, 

but  rather 

The   simple   duty   man    from   man 
demands. 


For  Earth  he  asks  it:  the  full  joy  of 

Heaven 
Knoweth  no  change  of  waning  or 

increase ; 
The  great  heart  of  the  Infinite  beats 

even, 

Untroubled  flows  the  river  of  his 
peace. 

He  asks  no  taper  lights,  on  high  sur 
rounding 
The  priestly  altar  and  the  saintly 

grave, 
No  dolorous  chant  nor  organ  music 

sounding, 

Nor  incense  clouding  up  the  twi 
light  nave. 

For  he  whom  Jesus  loved  hath  truly 

spoken : 
The  holier  worship  which  he  deigns 

to  bless 
Restores  the  lost,  and  binds  the  spirit 

broken, 

And    feeds    the     widow     and     th^ 
fatherless ! 


Types  of  our  human  weakness  and 

our  sorrow ! 

Who  lives  unhaunted  by  his  loved 
ones  dead? 


158 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Who,  with  vain  longing,  seeketh  not 

to  borrow 

From  stranger  eyes  the  home  lights 
which  have  fled? 

O  brother  man !  fold  to  thy  heart  thy 

brother ; 
Where    pity    dwells,    the   peace    of 

God  is  there; 
To   worship   rightly  is   to   love  each 

other, 

Each   smile    a   hymn,    each   kindly 
deed  a  prayer. 

Follow  with  reverent  steps  the  great 

example 
Of   Him   whose    holy    work    was 

"  doing  good  " ; 
So    shall   the   wide    earth    seem   our 

Father's  temple, 

Each  loving  life  a  psalm  of  grati 
tude. 

Then    shall     all     shackles     fall;     the 

stormy  clangor 
Of  wild  war  music  o'er  the  earth 

shall  cease; 
Love  shall  tread  out  the  baleful  fire 

of  anger, 

And  in  its  ashes  plant  the  tree  of 
peace ! 


THE  DEMON   OF  THE  STUDY. 

THE  Brownie  sits  in  the  Scotchman's 

room, 
And  eats  his  meat  and  drinks  his 

ale, 
And  beats  the  maid  with  her  unused 

broom, 

And  the  lazy  lout  with  his  idle  flail, 
But  he  sweeps  the  floor  and  threshes 

the  corn, 
And  hies  him  away  ere  the  break  of 

dawn. 

The  shade  of  Denmark  fled  from  the 
sun, 


And  the  Cocklane  ghost  from  the 

barnloft  cheer, 
The   fiend   of   Faust   was   a   faithful 

one, 

Agrippa's  demon  wrought  in  fear, 
And  the  devil  of  Martin  Luther  sat 
By  the   stout   monk's   side   in   social 
chat. 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  on  the  neck 

of  him 

Who  seven  times  crossed  the  deep, 
Twined  closely  each  lean  and  with 
ered  limb, 

Like  the  nightmare  in  one's  sleep. 
But  he  drank  of  the  wine,  and  Sin- 
bad  cast 
The  evil  weight  from  his  back  at  last. 

But  the   demon  that  cometh  day  by 

day 
To    my    quiet    room    and    fireside 

nook, 
Where  the  casement  light  falls  dim 

and  gray 

On  faded  painting  and  ancient  book, 
Is  a  sorrier  one  than  any  whose  names 
Are  chronicled  well  by  good  King 

James. 

No  bearer  of  burdens  like  Caliban, 
.    No  runner  of  errands  like  Ariel, 
He  comes  in  the  shape  of  a  fat  old 

man, 
Without  rap  of  knuckle  or  pull  of 

bell; 
And  whence  he  comes,  or  whither  he 

goes, 
I  know  as  I  do  of  the  wind  which 

blows. 


A  stout  old  man  with  a  greasy  hat 
Slouched  heavily  down  to  his  dark, 

red  nose, 

And  two  gray  eyes  enveloped  in  fat, 
Looking  through  glasses  with  iron 

bows. 
Read  ye,  and  heed  ye,  and  ye  who 

can,  I 

Guard  well  your  doors  from  that  old 

man! 


THE  DEMON  OF  THE  STUDY. 


159 


He  comes  with  a  careless  "  How  d'ye 

do?" 

And   seats   himself   in    my   elbow- 
chair  ; 

And  my  morning  paper  and  pamphlet 

new 

Fall   forthwith    under    his    special 
care, 

And  he  wipes  his  glasses  and  clears 
his  throat, 

And,   button  by  button,  unfolds   his 
coat. 


And  then  he  reads  from  paper  and 

book, 

In  a  low  and  husky  asthmatic  tone, 
With  the  stolid  sameness  of  posture 

and  look 

Of  one  who  reads  to  himself  alone; 
And  hour  after  hour  on  my  senses 

come 
That  husky  wheeze  and  that  dolorous 

hum. 


The    price    of     stocks,    the    auction 

sales, 
The    poet's    song   and    the    lover's 

glee, 
The  horrible  murders,  the  seaboard 

gales, 
The  marriage  list,  and  the  feu  d'e- 

sprit, 
All    reach   my    ear    in   the   selfsame 

tone, — 
I  shudder  at  each,  but  the  fiend  reads 

on! 


O,   sweet  as   the  lapse  of  water   at 

noon 
O'er  the  mossy  roots  of  some  forest 

tree, 
The  sigh  of  the  wind  in  the  woods  of 

June, 
Or  sound  of  flutes  o'er  a  moonlight 

sea, 
Or    the    low    soft    music,    perchance, 

which  seems 
To     float     through     the     slumbering 

singer's  dreams, 


So  sweet,  so  dear  is  the  silvery  tone, 
Of  her  in  whose  features  I  some 
times  look, 

As  I  sit  at  eve  by  her  side  alone, 
And   we    read  by  turns    from  the 

selfsame  book, — 

Some  tale  perhaps  of  the  olden  time, 
Some  lover's  romance  or  quaint  old 
rhyme. 

Then  when  the  story  is  one  of  woe, — 
Some  prisoner's  plaint  through  his 

dungeon-bar, 
Her  blue  eye  glistens  with  tears,  and 

low 
Her  voice  sinks  down  like  a  moan 

afar; 
And  I   seem  to  hear  that  prisoner's 

wail, 
And  his  face  looks  on  me  worn  and 

pale. 

And   when   she   reads   some  merrier 

song, 

Her  voice  is  glad  as  an  April  bird's, 
And   when    the  tale   is   of   war  and 

wrong, 
A    trumpet's    summons    is    in    her 

words, 
And  the  rush  of  the  hosts  I  seem  to 

hear, 
And   see   the  tossing  of  plume   and 

spear ! — 

O,  pity  me  then,  when,  day  by  day, 
The  stout  fiend  darkens  my  parlor 

door; 
And  reads  me  perchance  the  selfsame 

lay 
Which  melted  in  music,  the  night 

before, 

From  lips  as  the  lips  of  Hylas  sweet, 
And    moved    like   twin   roses    which 

zephyrs  meet! 

I  cross  my  floor  with  a  nervous  tread, 
I  whistle  and  laugh  and  sing  and 

shout, 

I  flourish  my  cane  above  his  head, 
And  stir  up  the  fire  to  roast  him 
out; 


160 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


I  topple  the  chairs,  and  drum  on  the 

pane, 
And  press  my  hands  on  my  ears,  in 

vain! 

I've  studied  Glanville  and  James  the 

wise, 
And     wizard     black-letter     tomes 

which  treat 

Of  demons  of  every  name  and  size, 
Which  a  Christian  man  is  presumed 

to  meet, 

But  never  a  hint  and  never  a  line 
Can  I   find   of  a   reading  fiend   like 

mine. 

I've  crossed  the  Psalter  with  Brady 

and  Tate, 

And  laid  the  Primer  above  them  all, 

I've  nailed  a  horseshoe  over  the  grate, 

And  hung  a  wig  to  my  parlor  wall 

Once  worn  by  a  learned  Judge,  they 

say, 
At  Salem  court  in  the  witchcraft  day ! 

"  Conjuro  te,  sceleratisslme, 

Abire  ad  tuum  locum!  " — still 
Like  a  visible  nightmare  he  sits  by 

me,— 

The  exorcism  has  lost  its  skill; 
And  I  hear  again  in  my  haunted  room 
The  husky  wheeze  and  the  dolorous 
hum! 

Ah ! — commend  me  to  Mary  Magda 
len 

With    her    sevenfold     plagues, — to 
the  wandering  Jew, 

To  the  terrors  which  haunted  Orestes 

when 

The    furies    his    midnight    curtains 
drew, 

But  charm  him  off,  ye  who  charm  him 
can, 

That  reading    demon,  that    fat    old 
man! 


THE  PUMPKIN. 

O,  GREENLY  and  fair  in  the  lands  of 

the  sun, 
The  vines  of  the  gourd  and  the  rich 

melon  run, 


And  the   rock  and  the  tree  and  the 

cottage  enfold, 
With  broad  leaves  all  greenness  and 

blossoms  all  gold, 
Like    that      which     o'er      Nineveh's 

prophet  once  grew, 
While  he    waited   to   know   that  his 

warning  was  true, 
And  longed  for  the  storm-cloud,  and 

listened  in  vain 
For  the  rush  of  the  whirlwind  and 

red  fire-rain. 


On  the  banks  of  the  Xenil  the  dark 
Spanish  maiden 

Comes  up  with  the  fruit  of  the  tan 
gled  vine  laden; 

And  the  Creole  of  Cuba  laughs  out 
to  behold 

Through  orange-leaves  shining  the 
broad  spheres  of  gold; 

Yet  with  dearer  delight  from  his 
home  in  the  North, 

On  the  fields  of  his  harvest  the  Yan 
kee  looks  forth, 

Where  crook-necks  are  coiling  and 
yellow  fruit  shines, 

And  the  sun  of  September  melts 
down  on  his  vines. 


Ah!  on  Thanksgiving  day,  when 
from  East  and  from  West, 

From  North  and  from  South  come 
the  pilgrim  and  guest, 

When  the  gray-haired  New-Eng- 
lander  sees  round  his  board 

The  old  broken  links  of  affection  re 
stored, 

When  the  care-wearied  man  seeks  his 
mother  once  more, 

And  the  worn  matron  smiles  where 
the  girl  smiled  before, 

What  moistens  the  lip  and  what 
brightens  the  eye? 

What  calls  back  the  past,  like  the  rich 
Pumpkin  pie? 


O, — fruit  loved  of  boyhood! — the  old 
days  recalling, 


EXTRACT  FROM  "A  NEW  ENGLAND  LEGEND.' 


161 


When  wood-grapes  were  purpling  and 
brown  nuts  were  falling! 

When  wild,  ugly  faces  we  carved  in 
its  skin, 

Glaring  out  through  the  dark  with  a 
candle  within ! 

When  we  laughed  round  th^  corn- 
heap,  with  hearts  all  in  tune, 

Our  chair  a  broad  pumpkin, — our  lan 
tern  the  moon, 

Telling  tales  of  the  fairy  who  trav 
elled  like  steam, 

In  a  pumpkin-shell  coach,  with  two 
rats  for  her  team ! 

Then  thanks   for  thy  present! — none 

sweeter  or  better 
E'er  smoked  from  an  oven  or  circled 

a  platter! 
Fairer  hands  never  wrought  at  a  pas 
try  more  fine, 
Brighter  eyes  never  watched  o'er  its 

baking,  than  thine! 
And  the  prayer,  which  my  mouth  is 

too  full  to  express, 
Swells  my  heart  that  thy  shadow  may 

never   be  less, 
That    the    days    of    thy    lot    may    be 

lengthened  below, 
And  the  fame  of  thy  worth   like  a 

pumpkin-vine  grow, 
And  thy  life  be  as  sweet,  and  its  last 

sunset  sky 
Golden-tinted    and    fair    as    thy   own 

Pumpkin  pie! 


EXTRACT  FROM  "A  NEW  ENG 
LAND  LEGEND." 

How   has   New    England's    romance 

fled, 

Even  as  a  vision  of  the  morning ! 
Its     rights     foredone, — its    guardians 

dead, — 

Its  priestesses,  bereft  of  dread, 
•     Waking  the  veriest  urchin's  scorn 
ing! 

Gone  like  the  Indian  wizard's  yell 
And   fire-dance    round    the    magic 

rock, 

Forgotten  like  the  Druid's  spell 
At  moonrise  by  his  holy  oak! 
No  more  along  the  shadowy  glen, 


Glide   the   dim   ghosts   of  murdered 

men; 

No  more  the  unquiet  churchyard  dead 

Glimpse  upward  from  their  turfy  bed, 

Startling    the    traveller,    late    and 

lone; 

As,  on  some  night  of  starless  weather, 
They  silently  commune  together, 

Each  sitting  on  his  own  head-stone ! 
The  roofless  house,  decayed,  deserted, 
Its  living  tenants  all  departed, 
No  longer  rings  with  midnight  revel 
Of  witch,  or  ghost,  or  goblin  evil; 
No  pale  blue  flame  sends  out  its  flashes 
Through  creviced  roof  and  shattered 

sashes ! — 
The    witch-grass     round    the    hazel 

spring 

May  sharply  to  the  night-air  sing, 
But  there  no  more  shall  withered  hags 
Refresh  at  ease  their  broomstick  nags, 
Or  taste  those  hazel-shadowed  waters 
As  beverage  meet  for  Satan's  daugh 
ters; 
No    more    their     mimic     tones     be 

heard, — • 

The  mew  of  cat,— the  chirp  of  bird,— 
Shrill  bending  with  the  hoarser  laugh 
ter 

Of  the  fell  demon  following  after! 
The  cautious  goodman  nails  no  more 
A  horseshoe  on  his  outer  door, 
Lest  some  unseemly  hag  should  fit 
To  his  own  mouth  her  bridle-bit, — 
The  goodwife's   churn  no  more   re 
fuses 

ts  wonted  culinary  uses 
Until,  with  heated  needle  burned, 
The  witch  has  to  her  place  returned! 
Our  witches  are  no  longer  old 
And   wrinkled   beldames,    Satan-sold, 
But    young   and    gay    and     laughing 

creatures, 
With   the   heart's   sunshine  on  their 

features, — 
"heir  sorcery — the  light  which  dances 
Where    the    raised    lid    unveils    its 

glances ; 

Or  that  low-breathed  and  gentle  tone, 
The  music  of  Love's  twilight  hours, 
Soft,  dreamlike,  as  a  fairy's  moan 
Above  her  nightly  closing  flowers, 


162 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Sweeter  than   that   which   sighed   of 

yore, 

Along  the  charmed  Ausonian  shore! 
Even  she,  our  own  weird  heroine, 
Sole   Pythoness  of  ancient  Lynn, 

Sleeps  calmly  where  the  living  laid 

her; 

And  the  wide  realm  of  sorcery, 
Left  by  its  latest  mistress  free, 

Hath  found  no  gray  and  skilled  in 
vader  : 
So   perished   Albion's    "  glammarye," 

With  him  in  Melrose  Abbey  sleep 
ing, 

His  charmed  torch  beside  his  knee, 
That  even  the  dead  himself  might  see 

The  magic  scroll  within  his  keep 
ing, 

And  now  our  modern  Yankee  sees 
Nor  omens,  spells,  nor  mysteries ; 
And  naught  above,  below,  around, 
Of  life  or  death,  of  sight  or  sound, 

Whate'er  its  nature,  form,  or  look, 
Excites  his  terror  or  surprise, — 
All  seeming  to  his  knowing  eyes 
Familiar  as  his  "  catechize," 

Or  "  Webster's  Spelling-Book." 


HAMPTON   BEACH. 

THE    sunlight    glitters     keen     and 

bright, 

Where,  miles  away, 
Lies  stretching  to  my  dazzled  sight 
A  luminous  belt,  a  misty  light, 
Beyond    the   dark    pine    bluffs    and 
wastes  of  sandy  gray. 

The  tremulous  shadow  of  the  Sea ! 

Against  its  ground 
Of  silvery  light,  rock,  hill,  and  tree, 
Still  as  a  picture,  clear  and  free, 
With  varying  outline  mark  the  coast 
for  miles  around. 

On — on — we  tread  with  loose-flung 

rein 
Our  seaward  way, 


Through     dark-green     fields     and 
blossoming  grain, 

Where  the  wild  brier-rose  skirts  the 

lane, 

And  bends  above  our  heads  the  flow 
ering  locust  spray. 


Ha!  like  a  kind  hand  on  my  brow 

Comes  this  fresh  breeze, 
Cooling  its  dull  and  feverish  glow, 
While  through  my  being  seems  to 

flow 

The  breath  of  a  new  life, — the  healing 
of  the  seas! 


Now  rest  we,  where    this    grassy 

mound 

His  feet  hath  set 
In    the   great    waters,   which   have 

bound 

His  granite  ankles  greenly  round 
With    long    and    tangled    moss,    and 
weeds  with  cool  spray  wet. 

Good  by  to  pain  and  care!  I  take 

Mine  ease  to-day: 
Here  where    these    sunny    waters 

break, 

And  ripples  this  keen  breeze,  I  shake 
All  burdens  from  the  heart,  all  weary 
thoughts  away. 

I  draw  a  freer  breath — I  seem 

Like  all  I  see — 

Waves     in     the     sun — the     white- 
winged  gleam 

Of  sea-birds  in  the  slanting  beam— 
And  far-off  sails  which  flit  before  the 
south-wind  free. 

So    when    Time's    veil     shall     fall 

asunder, 

The  soul  may  know 
No     fearful    change,    nor    sudden 

wonder, 
Nor    sink    the  weight  of    mystery 

under, 

But  with  the  upward  rise,  and  with 
the  vastness  grow. 


LINES. 


163 


And  all  we  shrink  from  now  may 

seem 

No  new  revealing; 
Familiar  as  our  childhood's  stream 
Or  pleasant  memory  of  a  dream 
The  loved  and  cherished   Past  upon 
the  new  life  stealing. 

Serene  and  mild  the  untried  light 

May  have  its  dawning; 
And,      as    in     summer's     northern 

night 

The  evening  and  the  dawn  unite, 
The  sunset  hues  of  Time  blend  with 
the  soul's  new  morning. 

I  sit  alone;  in  foam  and  spray 

Wave  after  wave 
Breaks  on  the  rocks  which,  stern 

and  gray, 

Shoulder  the  broken  tide  away, 
Or     murmurs     hoarse     and     strong 
through  mossy  cleft  and  cave. 

What  heed  I  of  the  dusty  land 

And  noisy  town? 
I  see  the  mighty  deep  expand 
From  its  white  line  of  glimmering 

sand 

To  where  the  blue  of  heaven  on  bluer 
waves  shuts  down ! 


In  listless  quietude  of  mind, 

I  yield  to  all 
The  change  of  cloud  and  wave  and 

wind, 

And  passive  on  the  flood  reclined, 
I   wander  with  the  waves,  and  with 
them  rise  and  fall. 

But  look,  thou  dreamer! — wave  and 

shore 

In  shadow  lie; 
The   night-wind     warns    me    back 

once  more 

To  where,  my  native  hill-tops  o'er, 
Bends  like  an  arch  of  fire  the  glow 
ing  sunset  sky. 


So    then,   beach,    bluff,    and   wave, 

farewell ! 
I  bear  with  me 

No  token  stone  nor  glittering  shell, 
But  long  and  oft  shall  Memory  tell 
Of  this  brief  thoughtful  hour  of  mus 
ing  by  the  Sea. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  HEARING  OF  THE  DEATH  OF 
SILAS    WRIGHT   OF    NEW    YORK. 

As  they  who,  tossing  midst  the  storm 

at  night, 
While  turning  shoreward,  where  a 

beacon  shone, 
Meet  the   walled  blackness  of  the 

heaven  alone, 
So,  on  the  turbulent  waves  of  party 

tossed, 
[n  gloom  and  tempest,  men  have  seen 

thy  light 
Quenched  in  the  darkness.    At  thy 

hour  of  noon, 
While  life   was  pleasant  to  thy  un- 

dimmed  sight, 
And,   day  by  day,  within  thy  spirit 

grew 
A  holier  hope  than  young  Ambition 

knew, 
As  through  thy  rural  quiet,  not   in 

vain, 
Pierced  the  sharp  thrill  of  Freedom's 

cry  of  pain, 
Man  of  the  millions,  thou  art  lost 

too  soon ! 
ortents  at  which  the  bravest  stand 

aghast, — 
The  birth-throes  of  a  Future,  strange 

and  vast, 
Alarm  the  land;  yet  thou,  so  wise 

and  strong, 

uddenly  summoned  to  the  burial  bed, 
Lapped  in  its  slumbers   deep    and 

ever  long, 

lear'st  not  the  tumult  surging  over 
head. 


164 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Who  now  shall  rally  Freedom's  scat 
tering  host? 
Who  wear  the  mantle  of  the  leader 

lost? 
Who  stay  the  march  of  slavery?    IT: 

whose  voice 
Hath  called  thee  from  thy  task-field 

shall  not  lack 
Yet     bolder     champions,     to     beat 

bravely  back 
The  wrong  which,  through  his  poor 

ones,  reaches   Him : 
Yet    firmer    hands    shall     Freedom's 

torchlights  trim, 
And    wave   them    high    across    the 

abysmal  black, 
Till  bound,  dumb  millions  there  shall 

see  them  and  rejoice. 
loth  mo.,  1847. 


LINES, 

ACCOMPANYING    MANUSCRIPTS   PRE 
SENTED    TO    A    FRIEND. 

Tis  said  that  in  the  Holy  Land 
^  The  angels  of  the  place  have  blessed 
The  pilgrim's  bed  of  desert  sand, 
Like  Jacob's  stone  of  rest. 

That  down  the  hush  of  Syrian  skies 
Some  sweet-voiced  saint  at  twilight 
sings 

The  song  whose  holy  symphonies 
Are  beat  by  unseen  wings ; 

Till  starting  from  his  sandy  bed, 
The   wayworn   wanderer    looks   to 
see 

The  halo  of  an  angel's  head 

Shine  through  the  tamarisk-tree. 

So  through  the  shadows  of  my  way 
Thy   smile   hath    fallen    soft    and 
clear, 

So  at  the  weary  close  of  day 
Hath  seemed  thy  voice  of  cheer. 


That  pilgrim  pressing  to  hh  goal 
May  pause  not  for  the  vision's  sake. 

Yet  all  fair  things  within  his  soul 
The  thought  of  it  shall  wake; 

The  graceful  palm-tree  by  the  well, 
Seen  on  the  far  horizon's  rim; 

The  dark  eyes  of  the  fleet  gazelle, 
Bent  timidly  on  him ; 

Each    pictured    saint,    whose    golden 

hair 

Streams    sunlike   through   the   con 
vent's  gloom; 
Pale    shrines   of  martyrs   young  and 

fair, 
And  loving  Mary's  tomb; 

And  thus  each  tint  or  shade  which 
falls, 

From  sunset  cloud  or  waving  tree, 
Along  my  pilgrim  path,  recalls 

The  pleasant  thought  of  thee. 

Of  one  in  sun  and  shade  the  same, 
In  weal  and  woe  my  steady  friend, 

Whatever  by  that  holy  name 
The  angels  comprehend. 

Not  blind  to  faults  and  follies,  thou 
Hast  never  failed  the  good  to  see, 

Nor  judged  by  one  unseemly  bough 
The  upward-struggling  tree. 

These  light  leaves  at  thy  feet  I  lay,— 
Poor  common  thoughts  on  common 
things, 

Which  time  is  shaking,  day  by  day, 
Like  feathers  from  his  wings, — 

Chance  shootings  from  a  frail  life- 
tree, 

To  nurturing  care  but  little  known, 
Their  good  was  partly  learned  of  thee 

Their  folly  is  my  own. 

That    tree    still    clasps    the     kindly 

mould, 
Its   leaves   still   drink  the   twilight 

dew, 

And  weaving  its  pale  green  with  gold. 
Still  shines  the  sunlight  through. 


RAPHAEL. 


165 


There  still  the  morning  zephyrs  play, 
And  there  at  times  the  spring  bird 
sings, 

And  mossy  trunk  and  fading  spray 
Are  flowered  with  glossy  wings. 

Yet,  even  in  genial  sun  and  rain, 
Root,  branch,  and  leaflet   fail  and 
fade; 

The  wanderer  on  its  lonely  plain 
Erelong  shall  miss  its  shade. 

O  friend  beloved,  whose  curious  skill 
Keeps  bright  the  last  year's  leaves 

and  flowers, 
With    warm,   glad    summer   thoughts 

to  fill 
The  cold,  dark,  winter  hours! 

Pressed  on  thy  heart,  the    leaves    I 
bring 

May  well  defy  the  wintry  cold, 
Until,  in  Heaven's  eternal  spring, 

Life's   fairer  ones  unfold. 


THE   REWARD. 

WHO,    looking    backward    from     his 
manhood's  prime, 

Sees  not  the  spectre  of  his  misspent 

time? 
And,  through  the  shade 

Of  funeral  cypress  planted  thick  be 
hind, 

Hears  no  reproachful  whisper  on  the 

wind 
From  his  loved  dead? 

Who  bears  no  trace  of  passion's  evil 
force  ? 

Who  shuns  thy  sting,  O  terrible  Re 
morse? — • 
Who  does  not  cast 

On  the  thronged  pages  of  his  mem 
ory's  book, 

At    times,    a    sad    and    half-reluctant 

look, 
Regretful  of  the  Past? 


Alas! — the  evil  which  we  fain  would 

shun 
We  do,  and  leave  the  wished-for  good 

undone : 

Our  strength  to-day 
Is  but  to-morrow's  weakness,  prone 

to  fall; 

Poor,  blind,  unprofitable  servants  all 
Are  we  alway. 

Yet  who,  thus  looking  backward  o'er 

his  years, 

Feels  not  his  eyelids  wet  with  grate 
ful  tears, 
If  he  hath  been 

Permitted,  weak  and  sinful  as  he  was, 
To  cheer  and  aid,  in  some  ennobling 

cause, 
His  fellow-men? 

If  he  hath  hidden  the  outcast,  or  let  in 
A  ray  of  sunshine  to  the  cell  of  sin, — 

If  he  hath  lent  ' 
Strength  to  the  weak,  and,  in  an  hour 

of  need, 
Over  the   suffering,  mindless  of  his 

creed 
Or  home,  hath  bent, 

He  has  not  lived  in  vain,  and  while 

he  gives 
The    praise    to    Him,    in    whom    he 

moves  and  lives, 
With  thankful  heart; 
He  gazes   backward,   and  with  hope 

before, 
Knowing  that   from    his    works    he 

nevermore 
Can  henceforth  part. 


RAPHAEL. 

I  SHALL  not  soon  forget  that  sight : 
The    glow    of    autumn's    westering 
day, 

A  hazy  warmth,  a  dreamy  light, 
On  Raphael's  picture  lay. 

It  was  a  simple  print  I  saw, 
The  fair  face  of  a  musing  boy; 


166 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Yet,  while  I  gazed,  a  sense  of  awe 
Seemed  blending  with  my  joy. 

A  simple  print : — the  graceful  flow 
Of  boyhood's  soft  and  wavy  hair, 

And  fresh  young  lip  and  cheek,  and 

brow 
Unmarked  and  clear,  were  there. 

Yet  through  its  sweet  and  calm  re 
pose 

I  saw  the  inward  spirit  shine ; 
It  was  as  if  before  me  rose 

The  white  veil  of  a  shrine. 

As  if,  as  Gothland's  sage  has  told, 
The  hidden  life,  the  man  within, 

Dissevered  from  its  frame  and  mould, 
By  mortal  eye  were  seen. 

Was  it  the  lifting  of  that  eye, 

The  waving  of  that  pictured  hand? 

Loose  as  a  cloud-wreath  on  the  sky, 
I  saw  the  walls  expand. 

The   narrow   room    had    vanished, — 

space, 

Broad,  luminous,  remained  alone, 
Through  which  all  hues  and   shapes 

of  grace 
And  beauty  looked  or  shone. 

Around  the  mighty  master  came 
The     marvels     which     his     pencil 
wrought, 

Those  miracles  of  power  whose  fame 
Is  wide  as  human  thought. 

There  drooped  thy  more  than  mortal 
face, 

O  Mother,  beautiful  and  mild! 
Enfolding  in  one  dear  embrace 

Thy  Saviour  and  thy  Child! 

The  rapt  brow  of  the  Desert  John; 

The  awful  glory  of  that  day 
When    all    the     Father's     brightness 
shone 

Through  manhood's  veil  of  clay. 


And,  midst  gray  prophet  forms,  and 
wild 

Dark  visions  of  the  days  of  old, 
How  sweetly  woman's  beauty  smiled 

Through  locks  of  brown  and  gold  i 

There  Fornarina's  fair  young  face 
Once  more  upon  her  lover  shone, 

Whose  model  of  an  angel's  grace 
He  borrowed  from  her  own. 

Slow  passed    that    vision    from    my 

view, 

But  not  the  lesson  which  it  taught; 
The    soft,   calm    shadows     which    it 

threw 
Still  rested  on  my  thought : 

The  truth,  that  painter,  bard,  and  sage, 
Even  in   Earth's  cold  and  change 
ful  clime, 

Plant  for  their  deathless  heritage 
The  fruits  and  flowers  of  time. 

We  shape  ourselves  the  joy  or  fear 
Of  which  the  coming  life  is  made, 

And  fill  our  Future's  atmosphere 
With  sunshine  or  with  shade. 

The  tissue  of  the  Life  to  be 

We  weave  with  colors  all  our  own, 

And  in  the  field  of  Destiny 
We  reap  as  we  have  sown. 

Still  shall  the  soul  around  it  call 
The    shadows    which     it     gathered 
here, 

And,  painted  on  the  eternal  wall, 
The  Past  shall  reappear. 

Think  ye  the  notes  of  holy  song 
On  Milton's  tuneful  ear  have  died? 

Think  ye  that  Rahpael's  angel  throng 
Has  vanished  from  his  side? 

O  no  !— We  live  our  life  again : 
Or  warmly  touched,  or  coldly  dim, 

The  pictures  of  the  Past  remain,— 
Man's  works  shall  follow  him! 


LUCY  HOOPER. 


167 


LUCY   HOOPER. 

THEY  tell  me,  Lucy,  thou  art  dead, — 
That  all   of  thee  we  loved  and 

cherished 

Has  with  thy  summer  roses  per 
ished  : 

And  left,  as  its  young  beauty  fled, 
An  ashen  memory  in  its  stead, — 
The  twilight  of  a  parted  day 

Whose  fading  light  is  cold  and 

vain; 

The  heart's  faint  echo  of  a  strain 

Of  low,  sweet  music  passed  away. 

That  true  and  loving  heart, — that  gift 

Of  a  mind,  earnest,  clear,  profound, 

Bestowing,  with  a  glad  unthrift, 

Its   sunny   light  on  all   around, 
Affinities  which  only  could 
Cleave   to    the    pure,    the   true,    and 

good; 
And    sympathies    which    found    no 

rest, 

Save  with  the  loveliest  and  best. 
Of     them — of     thee — remains     there 

naught 
But     sorrow     in     the      mourner's 

breast  ?— 

A  shadow  in  the  land  of  thought? 
No  ! — Even   my  weak  and  trembling 

faith 
Can    lift    for    thee   the    veil    which 

doubt 

And  human  fear  have  drawn  about 
The  all-awaiting  scene  of  death. 

Even  as  thou  wast  I  see  thee  still; 
And,  save  the  absence  of  all  ill 
And  pain  and  weariness,  which  here 
Summoned  the  sigh  or  wrung  the  tear, 
The    same    as    when,    two    summers 

back, 

Beside  our  childhood's  Merrimack, 
I  saw  thy  dark  eye  wander  o'er 
Stream,  sunny  upland,  rocky  shore, 
And  heard  thy  low,  soft  voice  alone 
Midst  lapse  of  waters,  and  the  tone 
Of    pine-leaves     by     the     west-wind 

blown, 
There's    not    a    charm    of    soul    or 

brow, — 

Of  all  we  knew  and  loved  in  thee, — 
But  lives  in  holier  beauty  now, 


Baptized  in  immortality! 
Not  mine  the  sad  and  freezing  dream 
Of   souls   that,   with   their   earthly 

mould, 

Cast  off  the  loves  and  joys  of  old, — 
Unbodied, — like  a  pale  moonbeam, 

As  pure,  as  passionless,  and  cold ; 
Nor  mine  the  hope  of  Indra's  son, 
Of  slumbering  in  oblivion's  rest, 
Life's  myriads  blending  into  one, — 

In  blank  annihilation  blest; 
Dust-atoms  of  the  infinite, — 
Sparks    scattered    from    the    central 

light, 
And    winning   back    through    mortal 

pain 

Their  old  unconsciousness  again. 
No  ! — I  have  FRIENDS  in  Spirit  Land, — 
Not  shadows  in  a  shadowy  band, 

Not  others,  but  themselves  are  they. 
And  still  I  think  of  them  the  same 
As    when    the     Master's     summons 

came; 
Their    change, — the    holy    morn-light 

breaking 

Upon  the  dream-worn   sleeper,   wak 
ing,— 
A  change  from  twilight  into  day. 

They've  laid  thee  midst  the  household 

graves, 

Where  father,  brother,  sister  lie; 
Below    thee    sweep     the     dark     blue 

waves, 

Above  thee  bends  the  summer  sky. 
Thy  own  loved  church  in  sadness  read 
Her  solemn  ritual  o'er  thy  head, 
And  blessed  and  hallowed  with  her 

prayer 

The  turf  laid  lightly  o'er  thee  there. 
That  church,  whose  rites  and  liturgy, 
Sublime  and  old,  were  truth  to  thee, 
Undoubted  to  thy  bosom  taken, 
As   symbols  of  a  faith  unshaken. 
Even  I,  of  simpler  views,  could  feel 
The  beauty  of  thy  trust  and  zeal ; 
And,  owning  not  thy  creed,  could  see 
How  deep  a  truth  it  seemed  to  thee. 
And    how     thy     fervent     heart     had 

thrown 

O'er  all,  a  coloring  of  its  own, 
And  kindled  up,  intense  and  warm, 
A  life  in  every  rite  and  form, 


168 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


As,  when  on  Chebar's  banks  of  old, 
The  Hebrew's  gorgeous  vision  rolled, 
A  spirit  filled  the  vast  machine, — 
A  life  "  within  the  wheels  "  was  seen. 

Farewell !     A  little  time,  and  we 
Who    knew    thee    well,   and    loved 

thee  here, 

One  after  one  shall  follow  thee 
As   pilgrims    through   the   gate   of 

fear, 

Which  opens  on  eternity. 
Yet  shall  we  cherish  not  the  less 
All  that  is   left  our  hearts  mean 
while; 
The  memory  of  thy  loveliness 

Shall    round    our    weary    pathway 

smile, 
Like    moonlight    when    the    sun    has 

set,— 

A  sweet  and  tender  radiance  yet. 
Thoughts  of  thy  clear-eyed  sense  of 

duty, 
Thy  generous   scorn  of  all  things 

wrong, — 
The  truth,  the  strength,  the  graceful 

beauty 

Which  blended  in  thy  song. 
All  lovely  things,  by  thee  beloved, 

Shall  whisper  to  our  hearts  of  thee  ; 
These  green   hills,  where  thy  child 
hood  roved, — 

Yon  river  winding  to  the  sea, — 
The  sunset  light  of  autumn  eves 

Reflecting  on  the  deep,  still  floods, 
Cloud,    crimson    sky,    and    trembling 

leaves 

Of  rainbow-tinted  woods, — 
These,  in  our  view,  shall  henceforth 

take 

A  tenderer  meaning  for  thy  sake; 
And  all  thou  lovedst  of  earth  and  sky, 
Seem  sacred  to  thy  memory. 

CHANNING. 

NOT  vainly  did  old  poets  tell, 
Nor  vainly  did  old  genius  paint 

God's  great  and  crowning  miracle, — 
The  hero  and  the  saint! 

For  even  in  a  faithless  day 
Can  we  our  sainted  ones  discern: 


And  feel,  while  with  them  on  the  way, 
Our  hearts  within  us  burn. 

And  thus  the  common  tongue  and  pen 
Which,    world-wide,    echo    CHAN- 
NING'S  fame, 

As  one  of  Heaven's  anointed  men, 
Have  sanctified  his  name. 

In  vain  shall  Rome  her  portals  bar, 
And  shut  from  him  her  saintly 
prize, 

Whom,  in  the  world's  great  calendar, 
All  men  shall  canonize. 

By  Narragansett's  sunny  bay, 

Beneath     his      green      embowering 
wood, 

To  me  it  seems  but  yesterday 
Since  at  his  side  I  stood. 


The   slopes   lay   green   with   summer 

rains, 
The  western  wind  blew   fresh  and 

free, 
And   glimmered    down    the    orchard 

lanes 
The  white  surf  of  the  sea. 

With  us  was  one,  who,  calm  and  true, 
Life's  highest  purpose  understood, 

And,  like  his  blessed  Master,  knew 
The  joy  of  doing  good. 

Unlearned,  unknown  to  lettered  fame, 
Yet  on  the  lips  of  England's  poor 

And  toiling  millions  dwelt  his  name, 
With  blessings  evermore. 

Unknown    to   power    or    place,    yet 
where 

The  sun  looks  o'er  the  Carib  sea, 
It  blended  with  the  freeman's  prayer 

And  song  of  jubilee. 

He  told  of  England's  sin  and  wrong, — 
The     ills     her     suffering      children 
know, — 

The  squalor  of  the  city's  throng, — 
The  green  field's  want  and  woe. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  CHARLES  B.  STORRS. 


169 


O'er  Channing's  face  the  tenderness 
Of  sympathetic  sorrow  stole, 

Like  a  still  shadow,  passionless, — 
The  sorrow  of  the  soul. 

But  when  the  generous  Briton  told 
How  hearts  were  answering  to  his 
own, 

And  Freedom's  rising  murmur  rolled 
Up  to  the  dull-eared  throne, 

I  saw,  methought,  a  glad  surprise 
Thrill  through  that  frail  and  pain- 
worn  frame, 
And,   kindling  in    those    deep,   calm 

eyes, 
A  still  and  earnest  flame. 

His  few,  brief  words  were  such  as 

move 
The  human  heart, — the  Faith-sown 

seeds 

Which  ripen  in  the  soil  of  love 
To  high  heroic  deeds. 

No  bars  of  sect  or  clime  were  felt, — 
The   Babel   strife   of   tongues   had 
ceased, — 

And  at  one  common  altar  knelt 
The  Quaker  and  the  priest. 

And  not  in  vain :    with  strength  re 
newed, 
And  zeal  refreshed,  and  hope  less 

dim, 

For  that  brief  meeting,  each  pursued 
The  path  allotted  him. 

How  echoes  yet  each  Western  hill 
And    vale    with    Channing's    dying 
word! 

How  are  the  hearts  of  freemen  still 
By  that  great  warning  stirred ! 

The  stranger  treads  his  native  soil, 
And  pleads,  with  zeal  unfelt  before 

The  honest  right  of  British  toil, 
The  claim  of  England's  poor. 

Before    him    time-wrought    barriers 

fall, 
Old  fears  subside,  old  hatreds  melt, 


And,    stretching   o'er    the    sea's   blue 

wall, 
The  Saxon  greets  the  Celt. 

The  yeoman  on  the  Scottish  lines, 
The   Sheffield   grinder,    worn    and 
grim, 

The  delver  in  the  Cornwall  mines, 
Look  up  with  hope  to  him. 

Swart  smiters  of  the  glowing  steel, 
Dark  feeders  of  the  forge's  flame. 

Pale  watchers  at  the  loom  and  wheel, 
Repeat  his  honored  name. 

And  thus  the  influence  of  that  hour 
Of    converse     on    Rhode    Island's 
strand, 

Lives  in  the  calm,  resistless  power 
Which  moves  our  father-land. 

God  blesses  still  the  generous  thought, 
And    still    the     fitting     word     He 
speeds, 

And  Truth,  at  his  requiring  taught, 
He  quickens  into  deeds. 

Where  is  the  victory  of  the  grave? 

What  dust  upon  the  spirit  lies? 
God  keeps  the  sacred  life  he  gave, — 

The  prophet  never  dies ! 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  CHARLES 
B.    STORRS, 

LATE    PRESIDENT    OF    WESTERN    RESERVE 
COLLEGE. 

THOU  hast  fallen  in  thine  armor, 

Thou  martyr  of  the   Lord! 
With  thy  last  breath  crying, — "On 
ward  !  " 

And  thy  hand  upon  the  sword. 
The  haughty  heart  derideth, 

And  the  sinful  lip  reviles, 
But  the  blessing  of  the  perishing 

Around  thy  pillow  smiles ! 

When  to  our  cup  of  trembling, 
The  added  drop  is  given, 


170 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


And  the  long-suspended  thunder 
Falls  terribly  from  Heaven,— 

When  a  new  and  fearful  freedom 
Is  proffered  of  the  Lord 

To  the  slow-consuming  Famine, — 
The  Pestilence  and  Sword! — 


When  the  refuges  of  Falsehood 

Shall  be  swept  away  in  wrath, 
And  the  temple  shall  be  shaken, 

With  its  idol,  to  the  earth, — 
Shall  not  thy  words  of  warning 

Be  all  remembered  then? 
And  thy  now  unheeded  message 

Burn  in  the  hearts  of  men? 


Oppression's  hand  may  scatter 

Its  nettles  on  thy  tomb, 
And  even  Christian  bosoms 

Deny  thy  memory  room; 
For  lying  lips  shall  torture 

Thy  mercy  into  crime, 
And  the  slanderer  shall  flourish 

As  the  bay-tree  for  a  time. 

But  where  the  south-wind  lingers 

On  Carolina's  pines, 
Or  falls  the  careless  sunbeam 

Down  Georgia's  golden  mines, — 
Where  now  beneath  his  burthen 

The  toiling  slave  is  driven, — • 
Where  now  a  tyrant's  mockery 

Is  offered  unto  Heaven, — 

Where  Mammon  hath  its  altars 

Wet  o'er  with  human  blood, 
And  pride  and  lust  debases 

The  workmanship  of  God, — 
There  shall  thy  praise  be  spoken, 

Redeemed  from  Falsehood's  ban, 
When  the  fetters  shall  be  broken, 

And  the  slave  shall  be  a  man! 


Joy  to  thy  spirit,  brother! 

A  thousand  hearts  are  warm, — 
A  thousand  kindred  bosoms 

Are  baring  to  the  storm. 
What  though  red-handed  Violence 

With  secret  Fraud  combine? 


The  wall  of  fire  is  round  us, — 
Our  Present  Help  was  thine. 

Lo,— the  waking  up  of  nations, 

From  Slavery's  fatal  sleep,— 
The  murmur  of  a  Universe, — 

Deep  calling  unto  Deep! 
Joy  to  thy  spirit,  brother! 

On  every  wind  of  heaven 
The  onward  cheer  and  summons 

Of  FREEDOM'S  VOICE  is  given! 

Glory  to   God  forever! 

Beyond  the  despot's  will 
The  soul  of  Freedom  liveth 

Imperishable   still. 
The  words  which  thou  hast  uttered 

Are  of  that  soul  a  part, 
And  the  good   seed  thou  hast   scat 
tered 

Is  springing  from  the  heart. 

In  the  evil  days  before  us, 

And  the  trials  yet  to  come, — 
In  the  shadow  of  the  prison, 

Or  the  cruel  martyrdom, — 
We  will  think  of  thee,  O  brother ! 

And  thy  sainted  name  shall  be 
In  the  blessing  of  the  captive, 

And  the  anthem  of  the  free. 

1834. 


LINES, 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  S.  0.  TORREY. 

GONE  before  us,  O  our  brother, 

To  the   spirit-land! 
Vainly  look  we  for  another 

In  thy  place   to    stand. 
Who  shall  offer  youth  and  beauty 

On  the  wasting  shrine 
Of  a  stern  and  lofty  duty, 

With  a  faith  like  thine? 

O,  thy  gentle  smile  of  greeting 

Who  again  shall  see? 
Who  amidst  the  solemn  meeting 

Gaze  again  on  thee? — 


A  LAMENT. 


171 


Who,  when  peril  gathers  o'er  us, 
Wear  so  calm  a  brow? 

Who,  with  evil  men  before  us, 
So  serene  as  thou? 


Early  hath  the  spoiler  found  thee, 

Brother  of  our  love ! 
Autumn's  faded  earth  around  thee, 

And  its   storms  above! 
Evermore  that  turf  lie  lightly, 

And,  with  future  showers, 
O'er  thy  slumbers  fresh  and  brightly 

Blow  the  summer  flowers ! 


In  the  locks  thy  forehead  gracing, 

Not  a  silvery  streak; 
Nor  a  line  of  sorrow's  tracing 

On  thy  fair  young  cheek ; 
Eyes  of  light  and  lips  of  roses, 

Such  as   Hylas  wore, — 
Over  all  that  curtain  closes, 

Which  shall  rise  no  more ! 

Will  the  vigil  Love  is  keeping 

Round  that  grave  of  thine, 
Mournfully,  like  Jazer  weeping 

Over   Sibmah's  vine, — 
Will  the  pleasant  memories,  swelling 

Gentle  hearts,  of  thee, 
In  the  spirit's  distant  dwelling 

All  unheeded  be? 

If  the  spirit  ever  gazes, 

From  its  journeyings,  back; 
If  the  immortal  ever  traces 

O'er  its  mortal  track; 
Wilt  thou  not,  O  brother,  meet  us 

Sometimes  on  our  way, 
And,  in  hours  of  sadness,  greet  us 

As  a  spirit  may? 

Peace  be  with  thee,  O  our  brother. 

In  the  spirit-land! 
Vainly  look  we  for  another 

In  thy  place  to  stand. 
Unto  Truth  and  Freedom  giving 

All  thy  early  powers, 
Be  thy  virtues  with  the  living, 

And  thy  spirit  ours! 


A  LAMENT. 


"The  parted  spirit, 

Knoweth  it  not  our  sorrow?    Answereth  not 
Its  blessing  to  our  tears?" 


THE  circle  is  broken,-— one  seat  is  for 
saken, — 

One  bud  from  the  tree  of  our  friend 
ship  is  shaken, — 

One  heart  from  among  us  no  longer 
shall  thrill 

With  joy  in  our  gladness,  or  grief  in 
our  ill. 


Weep! — lonely  and  lowly  are  slum 
bering  now 

The  light  of  her  glances,  the  pride  of 
her  brow, 

Weep! — sadly  and  long  shall  we  lis 
ten  in  vain 

To  hear  the  soft  tones  of  her  wel 
come  again. 

Give  our  tears  to  the  dead!  For  hu 
manity's  claim 

From  its  silence  and  darkness  is  ever 
the  same ; 

The  hope  of  that  World  whose  exist 
ence  is  bliss 

May  not  stifle  the  tears  of  the  mourn 
ers  of  this. 


For,  oh!  if  one  glance  the  freed 
spirit  can  throw 

On  the  scene  of  its  troubled  proba 
tion  below, 

Than  the  pride  of  the  marble,  the 
pomp  of  the  dead, 

To  that  glance  will  be  dearer  the 
tears  which  we  shed. 

O,  who  can  forget  the  mild  light  of 
her  smile, 

Over  lips  moved  with  music  and  feel 
ing  the  while — 

The  eye's  deep  enchantment,  dark, 
dream-like,  and  clear, 


172 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


In  the  glow  of  its  gladness,  the  shade 
of  its  tear. 

And  the  charm  of  her  features,  while 

over  the  whole 
Played  the  hues  of  the  heart  and  the 

sunshine  of  soul, — 
And  the  tones  of  her  voice,  like  the 

music  which  seems 
Murmured   low  in  our    ears  by  the 

Angel  of  dreams ! 

But  holier  and  dearer  our  memories 
hold 

Those  treasures  of  feeling,  more  pre 
cious  than  gold, — 

The  love  and  the  kindness  and  pity 
which  gave 

Fresh  flowers  for  the  bridal,  green 
wreaths  for  the  grave! 

The  heart  ever  open  to  Charity's 
claim, 

Unmoved  from  its  purpose  by  cen 
sure  and  blame, 

While  vainly  alike  on  her  eye  and  her 
ear 

Fell  the  scorn  of  the  heartless,  the 
jesting  and  jeer. 

How   true    to    our    hearts    was    that 

beautiful  sleeper! 
With  smiles  for  the  joyful,  with  tears 

for  the  weeper! — 
Yet,      evermore      prompt,      whether 

mournful  or  gay, 
With  warnings  in  love  to  the  passing 

astray. 

For,     though     spotless     herself,    she 

could  sorrow  for  them 
Who    sullied    with    evil    the    spirit's 

pure  gem; 
And  a  sigh  or  a  tear  could  the  erring 

reprove, 
And  the   sting   of  reproof   was    still 

tempered  by  love. 

As  a  cloud  of  the  sunset,  slow  melt 
ing  in  heaven, 


As  a  star  that  is  lost  when  the  day 
light  is  given, 

As  a  glad  dream  of  slumber,  which 
wakens  in  bliss, 

She  hath  passed  to  the  world  of  the 
holy  from  this. 


DANIEL  WHEELER. 

[DANIEL  WHEELER,  a  minister  of  the  So 
ciety  of  Friends,  and  who  had  labored  in  the 
cause  of  his  Divine  Master  in  Great  Britain, 
Russia,  and  the  Islands  of  the  Pacific,  died  in 
New  York  in  the  spring  of  1840,  while  on  a  re 
ligious  visit  to  this  country.] 

O  DEARLY  loved! 

And  worthy  of  our  love ! — No  more 
Thy  aged  form  shall  rise  before 
The  hushed  and  waiting  worshipper, 
In  meek  obedience  utterance  giving 
To  words  of  truth,  so  fresh  and  liv 
ing, ' 

That,  even  to  the  inward  sense, 
They  bore  unquestioned  evidence 
Of  an  anointed  Messenger! 
Or,  bowing  down  thy  silver  hair 
In  reverent  awfulness  of  prayer, — 

The  world,  its  time  and  sense,  shut 

out, — 

The  brightness  of  Faith's  holy  trance 
Gathered  upon  thy  countenance, 

As     if     each     lingering     cloud     of 

doubt, — 

The  cold,  dark  shadows  resting  here 
In  Time's  unluminous  atmosphere, — 

Were  lifted  by  an  angel's  hand, 
And   through   them   on   thy   spiritual 

eye 
Shone  down  the  blessedness  on  high, 

The  glory  of  the  Better  Land! 

The  oak  has  fallen ! 
While,  meet  for  no  good  work,  the 

vine 

May  yet  its  worthless  branches  twine. 
Who  knoweth  not  that  with  thee  fell 
A  great  man  in  our  Israel? 
Fallen,   while  thy   loins   were  girded 

still, 

Thy  feet  with  Zion's  dews  still  wet, 
And  in  thy  hand  retaining  yet 
The  pilgrim's  staff  and  scallop-shell! 


DANIEL  WHEELED. 


173 


Unharmed  and  safe,  where,  wild  and 

free, 

Across  the  Neva's  cold  morass 
The  breezes  from  the  Frozen  Sea 
With     winter's     arrowy     keenness 

pass; 

Or  where  the  unwarning  tropic  gale 
Smote  to  the  waves  thy  tattered  sail, 
Or  where  the  noon-hour's  fervid  heat 
Against  Tahiti's  mountains  beat; 
The  same  mysterious  Hand  which 

gave 

Deliverance   upon    land   and   wave, 
Tempered  for  thee  the  blasts  which 

blew 

Ladaga's  frozen  surface  o'er, 
And  blessed  for  the  the  baleful  dew 

Of  evening  upon  Eimeo's  shore, 
Beneath  this  sunny  heaven  of  ours, 
Midst  our  soft  airs  and  opening  flow 
ers 
Hath  given  thee  a  grave! 

His  will  be  done, 

Who  seeth  not  as  man,  whose  way 
Is  not    as    ours!— T  is    well    with 

thee! 

Nor  anxious  doubt  nor  dark  dismay 
Disquieted  thy  closing  day, 
But,  evermore,  thy  soul  could  say, 

"My  Father  careth  still  for  me!" 
Called  from  thy  hearth  and  home,— 

from  her, 

The  last  bud  on  thy  household  tree, 
The  last  dear  one  to  minister 

In  duty  and  in  love  to  thee, 
From  all  which  nature  holdeth  dear, 
Feeble   with  years  and  worn  with 

pain, 

To  seek  our  distant  land  again, 
Bound  in  the  spirit,  yet  unknowing 
The  things  which  should  befall  thee 

here, 

Whether  for  labor  or  for  death, 
In  childlike  trust  serenely  going 
To  that  last  trial  of  thy  faith! 

O,  far  away, 
Where    never    shines    our    Northern 

star 

On  that  dark  waste  which  Balboa 
saw 


From   Darien's  mountains   stretching 

far, 
So   strange,  heaven-broad,   and  lone, 

that   there, 
With  forehead  to  its  damp  wind  bare. 

He  bent  his  mailed  knee  in  awe; 
In  many  an  isle  whose  coral  feet 
The  surges  of  that  ocean  beat, 
In  thy  palm  shadows,  Oahu, 

And  Honolulu's  silver  bay, 
Amidst  Owyhee's  hills  of  blue, 

And  taro-plains  of  Tooboonai, 
Are  gentle  hearts,  which  long  shall  be 
Sad  as  our  own  at  thought  of  thee, — 
Worn  sowers   of  Truth's   holy   seed, 
Whose  souls   in  weariness  and  need 

Were    strengthened   and    refreshed 

by  thine. 
For  blessed  by  our  Father's  hand 

Was  thy  deep  love  and  tender  care, 

Thy  ministry  and  fervent  prayer,— 
Grateful  as  Eschol's  clustered  vine 
To  Israel  in  a  weary  land ! 


And  they  who  drew 
By  thousands  round  thee,  in  the  hour 
Of  prayerful   waiting,   hushed   and 

deep, 

That  He  who  bade  the  islands  keep 
Silence  before  him,   might   renew 
Their  strength  with  his  unslumber- 

ing  power, 
They  too  shall  mourn  that  thou  art 

gone, 

That  nevermore  thy  aged  lip 
Shall    soothe    the    weak,    the    erring 

warn, 

Of  those  who  first,  rejoicing,  heard 
Through   thee   the    Gospel's    glorious 

word, — 

Seals  of  thy  true  apostleship. 
And,  if  the  brightest  diadem, 

Whose  gems  of  glory  purely  burn 
Around  the  ransomed  ones  in  bliss, 
Be  evermore  reserved   for  them 
Who  here,  through  toil  and  sorrow, 

turn 

Many  to  righteousness, — 
May  we  not  think  of  thee  as  wearing 
That    star-like    crown    of    light,    "nd 
bearing, 


174 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Amidst  Heaven's   white  and  blissful 

band, 
The    fadeless     palm-branch     in     thy 

hand ; 

And  joining  with  a  seraph's  tongue 
In  that  new  song  the  elders  sung, 
Ascribing  to  its  blessed  Giver 
Thanksgiving,   love,  and  praise   for 
ever! 

Farewell ! 

And  though  the  ways  of  Zion  mourn 
When   her   strong    ones    are     called 

away, 

Who  like  thyself  have  calmly  borne 
The  heat  and  burden  of  the  day, 
Yet    He   who     slumbereth     not    nor 

sleepeth 

His  ancient  watch  around  us  keepeth ; 
Still,  sent  from  his  creating  hand, 
New     witnesses     for     Truth     shall 

stand, — 

New  instruments  to  sound  abroad 
The  Gospel  of  a  risen  Lord; 

To  gather  to  the  fold  once  more 
The  desolate  and  gone  astray, 
The  scattered  of  a  cloudy  day, 

And  Zion's  broken  walls    restore; 
And,  through  the  travail  and  the  toil 

Of  true  obedience,  minister 
Beauty  for  ashes,  and  the  oil 

Of  joy  for  mourning,  unto  her! 
So  shall  her  holy  bounds  increase 
With  walls  of  praise  and  gates  of 

peace : 

So  shall  the  Vine,  which  martyr  tears 
And  blood  sustained  in  other  years, 

With  fresher  life  be  clothed  upon; 
And  to  the  world  in  beauty  show 
Like  the  rose-plant  of  Jericho, 

And  glorious  as  Lebanon! 


DANIEL  NEALL. 


FRIEND    of    the    Slave,    and    yet    the 

friend  of  all; 
Lover  of  peace,  yet  ever  foremost 

when 
The    need     of    battling     Freedom 

called  for  men 


To  plant  the  banner    on    the    outer 
wall; 

Gentle  and  kindly,  ever  at  distress 

Melted  to  more  than  woman's  tender 
ness, 

Yet  firm  and  steadfast,  at  his  duty's 
post 

Fronting  the  violence  of  a  maddened 
host, 

Like  some  gray  rock  from  which  the 
waves  are  tossed! 

Knowing  his  deeds  of  love,  men  ques 
tioned  not 

The  faith  of  one  whose  walk  and 
word  were  right, — • 

Who  tranquilly  in  Life's  great  task- 
field  wrought, 

And,  side  by  side  with  evil,  scarcely 

caught 

A   stain  upon  his  pilgrim  garb  of 
white : 

Prompt   to  redress  another's  wrong, 
his  own 

Leaving  to  Time  and  Truth  and  Peni 
tence  alone. 


n. 


Such  was  our  friend.  Formed  on 
the  good  old  plan, 

A  true  and  brave  and  downright  hon 
est  man ! — 

He  blew  no  trumpet  in  the  market 
place, 

Nor  in  the  church  with  hypocritic 
face 

Supplied  with  cant  the  lack  of  Chris 
tian  grace; 

Loathing  pretence,  he  did  with  cheer 
ful  will 

What  others  talked  of  while  their 
hands  were  still: 

And,  while  "  Lord,  Lord !  "  the  pious 
tyrants  cried, 

Who,  in  the  poor,  their  Master  cruci 
fied, 

His  daily  prayer,  far  better  under 
stood 

In  acts  than  words,  was  simply  DOING 
GOOD. 

So  calm,  so  constant  was  his  recti 
tude, 


GONE. 


175 


That,  by  his  loss  alone  we  know  its 

worth, 
And  feel  how  true  a  man  has  walked 

with  us  on  earth. 
6th  6th  month,  1846. 


TO  MY  FRIEND  ON  THE 
DEATH  OF  HIS  SISTER. 

THINE  is  a  grief,  the  depth  of  which 

another 

May  never  know ; 
Yet,  o'er  the  waters,  O  my  stricken 

brother ! 
To  thee  I  go. 

I  lean  my  heart  unto  thee,  sadly  fold 
ing 

Thy  hand  in  mine ; 
With  even  the  weakness  of  my  soul 

upholding 
The  strength  of  thine. 

I  never  knew,  like  thee,  the  dear  de 
parted  ; 

I  stood  not  by 
When,  in  calm  trust,  the  pure  and 

tranquil-hearted 
Lay  down  to  die. 

And  on  thy  ears  my  words  of  weak 

condoling 
Must  vainly  fall : 
The  funeral  bell  which  in  thy  heart  is 

tolling, 
Sounds  over  all! 

I  will  not  mock  thee  with  the  poor 

world's  common 

And  heartless  phrase, 

Nor  wrong  the  memory  of  a  sainted 

woman 
With  idle  praise. 

With  silence  only  as  their  benediction, 

God's  angels  come 

Where,    in   the    shadow    of   a    great 
affliction, 

The  soul  sits  dumb!: 


Yet,  would  I  say  what  thy  own  heart 

approveth : 
Our  Father's  will, 
Calling  to  Him  the  dear  one  whom 

He  loveth, 
Is  mercy  still. 

Not  upon  thee  or  thine  the  solemn 

angel 

Hath  evil  wrought; 
Her  funeral  anthem  is  a  glad  evan- 

gel- 
The  good  die  not! 

God  calls  our  loved  ones,  but  we  lose 

not  wholly 
What  He  hath  given; 
They  live  on  earth,  in  thought  and 

deed,  as  truly 
As  in  his  heaven. 

And  she  is  with  thee;  in  thy  path  of 

trial 

She  walketh  yet; 

Still   with   the  baptism  of   thy   self- 
denial 
Her  locks  are  wet. 

Up,  then,  my  brother !    Lo,  the  fields 

of  harvest 
Lie  white  in  view! 
She    lives    and    loves    thee,   and   the 

God  thou  servest 
To  both  is  true. 

Thrust  in  thy  sickle ! —England's  toil- 
worn  peasants 
Thy  call  abide; 
And  she  thou  mourn'st,  a  pure  and 

holy  presence, 
Shall  glean  beside ! 


GONE. 

ANOTHER  hand  is  beckoning  us, 

Another  call  is  given; 
And  glows   once  more  witt   Ange^- 
steps 

The  oath  which  reaches 


176 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Our  young  and  gentle  friend,  whose 
smile 

Made  brighter  summer  hours, 
Amidst  the  frosts  of  autumn  time 

Has  left  us  with  the  flowers. 


No  paling  of  the  cheek  of  bloom 

Forewarned  us  of  decay; 
No  shadow  from  the  Silent  Land 

Fell  round  our   sister's  way. 

The   light    of   her   young   life    went 
down, 

As  sinks  behind  the  hill 
The  glory  of  a  setting  star,— 

Clear,  suddenly,  and  still. 

As  pure  and    sweet,    her    fair   brow 

seemed 

Eternal  as  the  sky; 
And*  like  the  brook's  low  song,  her 

voice, — 
A  sound  which  could  not  die. 

And  half  we  deemed  she  needed  not 
The  changing  of  her  sphere, 

To  give  to  Heaven  a  Shining  One, 
Who  walked  an  Angel  here. 

The  blessing  of  her  quiet  life 

Fell  on  us  like  the  dew; 
And  good  thoughts,  where  her  foot 
steps  pressed 

Like  fairy  blossoms  grew. 

Sweet  promptings  unto  kindest  deeds 

Were  in  her  very  look; 
We  read  her  face,  as  one  who  reads 

A  true  and  holy  book: 

The  measure  of  a  blessed  hymn, 
To  which  our  hearts  could  move; 

The  breathing  of  an  inward  psalm ; 
A  canticle  of  love. 

We  miss  her  in  the  plac^  of  prayer, 
And  by  the  hearth-fire's  light; 

We  pause  beside  her  door  to  hear 
Once     more     her     sweet     "  Good 
night  !  " 


There  seems  a  shadow  on  the  day, 
Her  smile  no  longer  cheers; 

A  dimness  on  the  stars  of  night, 
Like  eyes  that  look  through  tears. 

Alone  unto  our  Father's  will 
One  thought  hath  reconciled; 

That  He  whose  love  exceedeth  ours 
Hath  taken  home  his  child. 

Fold  her,  O  Father!  in  thine  arms, 
And  let  her  henceforth  be 

A  messenger  of  love  between 
Our  human  hearts  and  thee. 

Still  let  her  mild  rebuking  stand 
Between  us  and  the  wrong, 

And  her  dear  memory  serve  to  make 
Our  faith  in  Goodness  strong. 

And  grant  that  she  who,  trembling, 
here 

Distrusted  all  her  powers, 
May  welcome  to  her  holier  home 

The  well-beloved  of  ours. 


THE  LAKE-SIDE. 

THE  shadows  round  the  inland  sea 

Are  deepening  into  night ; 
Slow  up  the  slopes  of  Ossipee 

They  chase  the  lessening  light. 
Tired  of  the  long  day's  blinding  heat, 

I  rest  my  languid  eye, 
Lake  of  the  Hills!  where,  cool    and 
sweet, 

Thy  sunset  waters  lie! 

Along  the  sky,  in  wavy  lines, 

O'er  isle  and  reach  and  bay, 
Green-belted  with  eternal  pines, 

The  mountains  stretch  away. 
Below,  the  maple  masses  sleep 

Where  shore  with  water  blends, 
While  midway  on  the  tranquil   deep 

The  evening  light  descends. 


THE  HTLL-TOP. 


177 


So    seemed    it    when    yon    hill's    red 
crown, 

Of  old,  the  Indian  trod, 
And,  through  the  sunset  air,  looked 
down 

Upon  the  Smile  of  God. 
To  him  of  light  and  shade  the  laws 

No  forest  sceptic  taught ; 
Their  living  and  eternal  Cause 

His  truer  instinct  sought. 

He  saw  these  mountains  in  the  light 

Which  now  across  them  shines ; 
This  lake,  in   summer  sunset  bright, 

Walled  round  with  sombering  pines. 
God  near  him  seemed ;  from  earth  and 
skies 

His  loving  voice  he  heard, 
As,  face  to  face,  in  Paradise, 

Man  stood  before  the  Lord. 

Thanks,  O  our  Father !  that,  like  him, 

Thy  tender  love  I  see, 
In  radiant  hill  and  woodland  dim, 

And  tinted  sunset  sea. 
For  not  in  mockery  dost  thou  fill 

Our  earth  with  light  and  grace; 
Thou  hid'st  no  dark  and  cruel  will 

Behind  thy  smiling  face! 


THE  HILL-TOP. 

THE  burly  driver  at  my  side, 

We  slowly  climbed  the  hill, 
Whose  summit,  in  the  hot  noontide, 

Seemed  rising,  rising  still. 
At  last,  our  short  noon-shadows  hid 

The  top-stone,  bare  and  brown, 
From   whence,   like   Gizeh's  pyramid, 

The  rough  mass  slanted  down. 

I  felt  the  cool  breath  of  the  North; 

Between  me  and  the  sun, 
O'er  deep,  still  lake,  and  ridgy  earth, 

I  saw  the  cloud-shades  run. 
Before    me,    stretched   for    glistening 
miles, 

Lay  mountain-girdled   Squam; 


Like  green-winged    birds,    the    leafy 

isles 
Upon  its  bosom  swam. 

And,  glimmering    through    the    sun- 
haze  warm, 

Far  as  the  eye  could  roam, 
Dark  billows  of  an  earthquake  storm 

Beflecked  with  clouds  like  foam, 
Their  vales  in  misty  shadow  deep, 

Their  rugged  peaks  in  shine, 
I  saw  the  mountain  ranges  sweep 

The  horizon's  northern  line. 

There  towered  Chocorua's  peak;  and 

west, 

Moosehillock's  woods  were  seen, 
With  many  a  nameless  slide-scarred 

crest 

A^nd  pine-dark  gorge  between. 
Beyond    them,     like     a     sun-rimmed 

cloud, 

The  great  Notch  mountains  shone, 
Watched  over  by  the  solemn-browed 
And  awful  face  of  stone! 

"  A  good  look-off !  "  the  driver  spake : 

"  About  this  time,  last  year, 
I  drove  a  party  to  the  Lake, 

And  stopped,  at  evening,  here. 
'T  was  duskish   down  below ;  but  all 

These  hills  stood  in  the  sun, 
Till,  dipped  behind  yon  purple  wall, 

He  left  them,  one  by  one. 

"  A  lady,  who,  from  Thornton  hill, 

Had  held  her  place  outside, 
And,  as  a  pleasant  woman  will, 

Had  cheered  the  long,  dull  ride, 
Besought  me,  with  so  sweet  a  smile, 

That — though   I   hate  delays — 
I  could  not  choose  but  rest  awhile, — 

(These  women  have  such  ways!) 

"  On  yonder  mossy  ledge  she  sat, 
Her  sketch  upon  her  knees, 

A  stray  brown  lock  beneath  her  hat 
Unrolling  in  the  breeze ; 

Her  sweet  face,  in  the  sunset  light 
Upraised  and  glorified, — 


178 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


I  never  saw  a  prettier  sight 
In  all  my  mountain  ride. 

"  As  good  as  fair ;  it  seemed  her  joy 

To  comfort  and  to  give; 
My  poor,  sick  wife,  and  cripple  boy, 

Will  bless  her  while  they  live !  " 
The  tremor  in  the  driver's  tone 

His  manhood  did  not  shame: 
"  I    dare    say,    sir,    you     may     have 
known — 

He  named  a  well-known  name. 

Then  sank  the  pyramidal  mounds, 

The  blue  lake  fled  away; 
For      mountain-scope      a      parlor's 
bounds, 

A  lighted  hearth  for  day! 
From  lonely  years  and  weary  miles 

The  shadows  fell  apart; 
Kind  voices  cheered,    sweet    human 
smiles 

Shone  warm  into  my  heart. 

We  journeyed  on;  but  earth  and  sky 

Had  power  to  charm  no  more; 
Still  dreamed  my  inward-turning  eye 

The  dream  of  memory  o'er. 
Ah!  human  kindness,  human  love, — 

To  few  who  seek  denied, — 
Too  late  we  learn  to  prize  above 

The  whole  round  world  beside! 


ON  RECEIVING  AN  EAGLE'S 
QUILL  FROM  LAKE  SUPE 
RIOR. 

ALL  day  the  darkness  and  the  cold 
Upon  my  heart  have  lain, 

Like  shadows  on  the  winter  sky, 
Like  frost  upon  the  pane; 

But  now  my  torpid  fancy  wakes, 
And,  on  thy  Eagle's  plume, 

Rides  forth,  like  Sinbad  on  his  bird, 
Or  witch  upon  her  broom ! 

Below  me  roar  the  rocking  pines, 
Before  me  spreads  the  lake 


Whose    long     and     solemn-sounding 

waves 
Against  the  sunset  break. 

I  hear  the  wild  Rice-Eater  thresh 
The  grain  he  has  not  sown ; 

I  see,  with  flashing  scythe  of  fire, 
The  prairie  harvest  mown ! 

I  hear  the  far-off  voyager's  horn; 

I  see  the  Yankee's  trail,— 
His  foot  on  every  mountain-pass, 

On  every  stream  his  sail. 


By  forest,  lake,  and  waterfall, 

I  see  his  pedler  show; 
The  mighty  mingling  with  the  mean, 

The  lofty  with  the  low. 


He  's  whittling  by  St.  Mary's  Falls, 

Upon  his  loaded  wain ; 
He 's    measuring    o'er    the     Pictured 
Rocks, 

With  eager  eyes  of  gain. 

I  hear  the  mattock  in  the  mine, 
The  axe-stroke  in  the  dell, 

The  clamor  from  the  Indian  lodge, 
The  Jesuit  chapel  bell! 

I  see  the  swarthy  trappers  come 
From  Mississippi's  springs; 

And  war-chiefs    with    their    painted 

brows, 
And  crests  of  eagle  wings. 


Behind     the    scared 


birch 


squaw  s 
canoe, 

The  steamer  smokes  and  raves; 
And  city  lots  are  staked  for  sale 
Above  old  Indian  graves. 


I  hear  the  tread  of  pioneers 

Of  nations  yet  to  be ; 
The  first  low  wash  of  waves,  where 
soon 

Shall  roll  a  human  sea. 


MEMORIES. 


179 


The  rudiments  of  empire  here 
Are  plastic  yet  and  warm; 

The  chaos  of  a  mighty  world 
Is  rounding  into  form! 

Each  rude  and  jostling  fragment  soon 
Its  fitting  place  shall  find, — 

The  raw  material  of  a  State, 
Its  muscle  and  its  mind! 


And,  westering  still,  the  star  which 
leads 

The  New  World  in  its  train 
Has  tipped  with  fire  the  icy  spears 

Of  many  a  mountain  chain. 

The  snowy  cones  of  Oregon 

Are  kindling  on  its  way; 
And    California's   golden   sands 

Gleam  brighter  in  its  ray! 


Then  blessings  on  thy  eagle  quill, 
As,  wandering  far  and  wide, 

I  thank  thee  for  this  twilight  dream 
And  Fancy's  airy  ride ! 

Yet,  welcomer  than  regal  plumes, 
Which  Western  trappers  find, 

Thy     free     and     pleasant    thoughts, 

chance  sown, 
Like  feathers  on  the  wind. 

Thy  symbol  be  the  mountain-bird, 
Whose  glistening  quill  I  hold; 

Thy  home  the  ample  air  of  hope, 
And  memory's  sunset  gold! 

In  thee,  let  joy  with  duty  join, 
And  strength  unite  with  love, 

The  eagle's  pinions  folding  round 
The  warm  heart  of  the  dove! 


So,  when  in  darkness  sleeps  the  vale 
Where  still  the  blind  bird  clings, 

The  sunshine  of  the  upper  sky 
Shall  glitter  on  thy  wings ! 


MEMORIES. 

A  BEAUTIFUL  and  happy  girl, 

With  step  as  light  as  summer  air, 
Eyes  glad  with  smiles,  and  brow  of 

pearl, 
Shadowed  by  many  a  careless  curl 

Of  unconfined  and  flowing  hair; 
A  seeming  child  in  everything, 

Save  thoughtful  brow  and  ripening 

charms, 
As  Nature  wears  the  smile  of  Sprng 

When  sinking  into  Summer's  arms. 


A  mind  rejoicing  in  the  light 

Which  melted  through  its  graceful 

bower, 

Leaf  after  leaf,  dew-moist  and  bright, 
And  stainless  in  its  holy  white, 

Unfolding  like  a  morning  flower: 
A  heart,  which,  like  a  fine-toned  lute, 

With  every  breath  of  feeling  woke, 
And,  even  when  the  tongue  was  mute, 

From  eye  and  lip  in  music   spoke. 


How  thrills  once  more  the  lengthen 
ing  chain 

Of  memory,  at  the  thought  of  thee ! 
Old  hopes   which  long  in  dust  have 

lain, 
Old    dreams,   come    thronging    back 

again, 

And  boyhood  lives  again  in  me; 
I  feel  its  glow  upon  my  cheek, 

Its  fulness  of  the  heart  is  mine, 
As  when  I  leaned  to  hear  thee  speak, 
Or  raised  my  doubtful  eye  to  thine. 


I  hear  again  thy  low  replies, 

I  feel  thy  arm  within  my  own, 
And  timidly  again  uprise 
The  fringed  lids  of  hazel  eyes, 

With  soft  brown  tresses  overblown. 
Ah !  memories  of  sweet  summer  eves, 

Of  moonlit  wave  and  willowy  way, 
Of    stars     and     flowers,     and     dewy 
leaves, 

And  smiles   and  tones  more   dear 
than  they! 


180 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Ere  this,  thy  quiet  eye  hath  smiled 
My  picture  of  thy  youth  to  see, 
When,  half  a  woman,  half  a  child, 
Thy  very  artlessness  beguiled, 

And    folly's    self    seemed    wise    in 

thee ; 

I  too  can  smile,  when  o'er  that  hour 
The    lights    of    memory    backward 

stream, 
Yet    feel    the   while   that   manhood's 

power 
Is  vainer  than  my  boyhood's  dream. 

Years  have  passed  on,  and  left  their 

trace 

Of  graver  care  and  deeper  thought ; 

And  unto  me  the  calm,  cold  face 

Of  manhood,  and  to  thee  the  grace 

Of  woman's  pensive  beauty  brought. 

More  wide,  perchance,  for  blame  than 

praise, 
The  school-boy's  humble  name  has 

flown; 

Thine,  in  the  green  and  quiet  ways 
Of  unobtrusive  goodness  known. 

And  wider  yet  in  thought  and  deed 

Diverge     our     pathways,     one     in 
_  youth ; 

Thine  the  Genevan's  sternest  creed, 
While  answers  to  my  spirit's  need 

The  Derby  dalesman's  simple  truth. 
For  thee,  the  priestly  rite  and  prayer, 

And  holy  day,  and  solemn  psalm; 
For  me,  the  silent  reverence  where 

My  brethren  gather,  slow  and  calm. 

Yet  hath  thy  spirit  left  on  me 

An  impress  Time  has  worn  not  out, 
And  something  of  myself  in  thee, 
A  shadow  from  the  past,  I  see, 

Lingering,  even  yet,  thy  way  about ; 
Not  wholly  can  the  heart  unlearn 

That  lesson  of  its  better  hours, 
Not  yet  has  Time's  dull  footstep  worn 

To  common  dust  that  path  of  flow 
ers. 

Thus,  while  at  times  before  our  eyes 

The  shadows  melt,  and  fall  apart, 
And,  smiling  through  them,  round  us 
lies 


The    warm    light    of    our    morning 

skies, — 

The  Indian  Summer  of  the  heart  !- 
In   secret  sympathies  of  mind, 

In  founts  of  feeling  which  retain 
Their  pure,   flesh  flow,  we  yet  may 

find 
Our  early  dreams  not  wholly  vain ! 


THE    LEGEND    OF    ST.    MARK. 

THE  day  is  closing  dark  and  cold, 
With     roaring     blast     and     sleety 

showers ; 

And  through  the  dusk  the  lilacs  wear 
The    bloom    of    snow,    instead    of 
flowers. 

I  turn  me  from  the  gloom  without, 
To  ponder  o'er  a  tale  of  old, 

A  legend  of  the  age  of  Faith, 
By  dreaming  monk  or  abbess  told. 

On  Tintoretto's  canvas  lives 
That  fancy  of  a  loving  heart, 

In  graceful  lines  and  shapes  of  power, 
And  hues  immortal  as  his  art. 

In  Provence  (so  the  story  runs) 
There    lived    a    lord    to    whom,    as 

slave, 
A  peasant-boy  of  tender  years 

The   chance   of   trade   or   conquest 
gave. 

Forth-looking  from  the  castle  tower, 
Beyond  the  hills  with  almonds  dark, 

The  straining  eye  could  scarce  discern 
The  chapel  of  the  good  St.  Mark. 

And  there,  when  bitter  word  or  fare 
The  service  of  the  youth  repaid, 

By  stealth,  before  that  holy  shrine, 
For   grace  to   bear   his   wrong,   he 
prayed. 

The  steed  stamped  at  the  castle  gate, 
The  boar-hunt  sounded  on  the  hill : 


THE  WELL  OF  LOCH  MAREE. 


181 


Why   stayed   the    Baron    from    the 

chase, 

With  looks  so  stern,  and  words  so 
ill? 


"Go,   bind   yon   slave!    and   let   him 

learn, 

By  scath  of  fire  and  strain  of  cord, 
How   ill  they   speed   who  give  dead 

saints 
The  homage  due  their  living  lord !  " 

They  bound  him  on  the  fearful  rack, 
When,     through      the      dungeon's 

vaulted  dark, 

He  saw  the  light  of  shining  robes, 
And    knew    the    face    of   good    St. 
Mark. 


Then  sank  the  iron  rack  apart, 
The  cords  released  their  cruel  clasp, 

The  pincers,  with  their  teeth  of  fire, 
Fell    broken    from    the    torturer's 
grasp. 

And  lo !  before  the  Youth  and  Saint, 
Barred  door  and  wall  of  stone  gave 

way; 

And  up  from  bondage  and  the  night 
They  passed   to   freedom  and   the 
day! 

O  dreaming  monk !  thy  tale  is  true ; — 
O  painter!  true  thy  pencil's  art; 

In  tones  of  hope  and  prophecy, 
Ye  whisper  to  my  listening  heart! 

Unheard  no  burdened  heart's  appeal 
Moans  up  to  pod's  inclining  ear; 

Unheeded  by  his  tender  eye, 

Falls  to  the  earth  no  sufferer's  tear. 

For  still  the  Lord  alone  is  God ! 

The  pomp  and  power  of  tyrant  man 
Are  scattered  at  his  lightest  breath, 

Like  chaff  before  the  winnower's 
fan. 

Not  always  shall  the  slave  uplift 
His  heavy  hands  to  Heaven  in  vain. 


God's  angel,  like  the  good  St.  Mark, 
Comes  shining  down  to  break  his 
chain ! 

O  weary  ones !  ye  may  not  see 
Your    helpers    in    their    downward 

flight ; 

Nor  hear  the  sound  of  silver  wings 
Slow  beating  through  the  hush  of 
night ! 

But  not  the  less  gray  Dothan  shone, 
With    sunbright    watchers    bending 
low, 

That  Fear's  dim  eye  beheld  alone 
The  spear-heads  of  the  Syrian  foe. 

There  are,  who,  like  the  Seer  of  old, 
Can  see  the  helpers  God  has  sent, 

And  how  life's  rugged  mountain-side 
Is  white  with  many  an  angel  tent ! 

They  hear   the    heralds    whom    our 

Lord 

Sends   down  his  pathway  to    pre 
pare; 

And  light,  from  others  hidden,  shines 
On   their  high  place  of   faith  and 
prayer. 

Let  such,  for  earth's  despairing  ones, 

Hopeless,  yet  longing  to  be  free, 
Breathe   once    again    the     Prophet's 

prayer : 

"  Lord,   ope  their   eyes,   that    they 
may  see !  " 


THE  WELL   OF  LOCH  MAREE. 

CALM  on  the  breast  of  Loch  Maree 

A  little  isle  reposes ; 
A  shadow  woven  of  the  oak 

And  willow  o'er  it  closes. 

Within,  a  Druid's  mound  is  seen, 
Set  round  with  stony  warders ; 

A  fountain,  gushing  through  the  turf, 
Flows  o'er  its  grassy  borders. 


182 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


And  whoso  bathes  therein  his  brow 
With  care  or  madness  burning, 

Feels  once  again  his  healthful  thought 
And  sense  of  peace  returning. 

O  restless  heart  and  fevered  brain, 

Unquiet  and  unstable, 
That  holy  well  of  Loch  Maree 

Is  more  than  idle  fable! 

Life's  changes  vex,  its  discords  stun, 
Its  glaring  sunshine  blindeth, 

And  blest  is  he  who  on  his  way 
That  fount  of  healing  findeth! 

The  shadows  of  a  humbled  will 
And  contrite  heart  are  o'er  it ; 

Go     read     its      legend — "  TRUST     IN 

GOD  ';— 
On  Faith's  white  stones  before  it. 


TO  MY  SISTER; 

WITH    A    COPY    OF    "  SUPERNATURALISM 
OF    NEW    ENGLAND." 

DEAR  SISTER  !— while    the    wise    and 

sage 

Turn  coldly  from  my  playful  page, 
And  count  it  strange  that  ripened  age 

Should  stoop  to  boyhood's  folly; 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  judge  aright 
Of  all  which  makes  the  heart  more 

light, 
Or  lends  one  star-gleam  to  the  night 

Of  clouded  Melancholy. 

Away  with  weary  cares  and  themes  !— 
Swing    wide    the    moonlit     gate   of 

dreams ! 
Leave  free  once  more  the  land  which 

teems 

With  wonders  and  romances! 
Where    thou,    with    clear    discerning 

eyes, 

Shalt  rightly  read  the  truth  which  lies 
Beneath   the   quaintly  masking  guise 
Of  wild  and  wizard  fancies. 


Lo!  once  again  our  feet  we  set 

On   still   green   wood-paths,   twilight 

wet, 
By  lonely  brooks,  whose  waters  fret 

The  roots  of  spectral  beeches ; 
Again  the  hearth-fire   glimmers  o'er 
Home's  whitewashed  wall  and  painted 

floor, 
And  young  eyes  widening  to  the  lore 

Of  faery-folks  and  witches. 

Dear  heart! — the  legend  is  not  vain 
Which  lights  that  holy  hearth  again, 
And  calling  back  from  care  and  pain, 

And  death's  funereal  sadness, 
Draws  round  its  old  familiar  blaze 
The    clustering     groups     of    happier 

days, 
And  lends  to  sober  manhood's  gaze 

A  glimpse  of  childish  gladness. 

And,  knowing  how  my  life  hath  been 
A  weary  work  of  tongue  and  pen, 
A  long,   harsh    strife    with     strong- 
willed  men, 

Thou  wilt  not  chide  my  turning 
To  con,  at  times,  an  idle  rhyme, 
To  pluck  a  flower  from  childhood's 

clime, 
Or  listen,  at  Life's  noonday  chime, 

For  the  sweet  bells  of  Morning! 


AUTUMN  THOUGHTS. 

FROM    "  MARGARET    SMITHES    JOURNAL/' 

GONE   hath  the   Spring,  with  all   its 

flowers, 
And  gone  the  Summer's  pomp  and 

show, 

And  Autumn,  in  his  leafless  bowers, 
Is  waiting  for  the  Winter's  snow. 

[  said  to  Earth,  so  cold  and  gray, 
"  An  emblem  of  myself  thou  art  " ; 

'  Not  so,"  the  Earth  did  seem  to  say, 
"  For  Spring  shall  warm  my  frozer 
heart." 


TO  PIUS  IX. 


18S 


I  soothe  my  wintry  sleep  with  dreams 
Of  warmer  sun  and  softer  rain, 

And    wait    to     hear    the     sound    of 

streams 
And  songs  of  merry  birds  again. 

But  thou,  from  whom  the  Spring  hath 

gone, 
For  whom  the   flowers  no   longer 

blow, 

Who  standest  blighted  and  forlorn, 
Like  Autumn  waiting  for  the  snow : 

No  hope  is  thine  of  sunnier  hours, 
Thy  Winter  shall  no  more  depart ; 

No  Spring  revive  thy  wasted  flowers, 
Nor    Summer    warm    thy    frozen 
heart. 


CALEF  IN  BOSTON. 
1692. 

IN  the  solemn  days  of  old, 
Two  men  met  in  Boston  town, 

One  a  tradesman  frank  and  bold, 
One  a  preacher  of  renown. 

Cried  the  last,  in  bitter  tone, — 
"  Poisoner  of  the  wells  of  truth! 

Satan's  hireling,  thou  hast  sown 
With  his  tares  the  heart  of  youth !  " 

Spake  the  simple  tradesman  then, — 
"  God  be  judge  'twixt  thou  and  I ; 

All  thou  knowest  of  truth  hath  been 
Unto  men  like  thee  a  lie. 

"  Falsehoods  which  we  spurn  to-day 
Were  the  truths  of  long  ago ; 

Let  the  dead  boughs   fall  away, 
Fresher  shall  the  living  grow. 

"  God  is  good  and  God  is  light, 
In  this  faith  I  rest  secure ; 

Evil  can  but  serve  the  right, 
Over  all  shall  love  endure. 

"  Of  your  spectral  puppet  play 
I  have  traced  the  cunning  wires ; 

Come  what  will,  I  needs  must  say, 
God  is  true,  and  ye  are  liars." 


When  the  thought  of  man  is  free, 
Error  fears  its  lightest  tones; 

So  the  priest  cried,  "  Sadducee !  " 
And  the  people  took  up  stones. 

In  the  ancient  burying-ground, 
Side  by  side  the  twain  now  lie, — 

One  with  humble  grassy  mound, 
One  with  marbles  pale  and  high. 

But  the  Lord  hath  blessed  the  seed 
Which    that     tradesman     scattered 
then, 

And  the  preacher's  spectral  creed 
Chills  no  more  the  blood  of  men. 

Let  us  trust,  to  one  is  known 

Perfect  love  which  casts  out  feaiv 

While  the  other's  joys  atone 
For  the  wrong  he  suffered  here. 


TO   PIUS  IX. 

THE  cannon's  brazen  lips  are  cold; 

No  red  shell  blazes  down  the  air ; 
And  street  and  tower,  and  temple  old, 

Are  silent  as  despair. 

The  Lombard   stands    no    more    at 

bay, — 
Rome's  fresh  young  life  has  bled  in 

vain; 

The  ravens  scattered  by  the  day 
Come  back  with  night  again. 

Now,  while  the  fratricides  of  France 
Are  treading  on  the  neck  of  Rome, 

Hider  at  Gaeta, — seize  they  chance ! 
Coward  and  cruel,  come! 

Creep  now  from  Naples'  bloody  skirt : 
Thy  mummer's  part  was  acted  well. 

While  Rome,  with  steel  and  fire  be 
girt, 
Before  thy  crusade  fell ! 

Her    death-groans  answered    to  thy 

prayer ; 
Thy  chant,  the  drum  and  bugle-call ; 


184 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Thy  lights,  the  burning  villa's  glare; 
Thy  beads,  the  shell  and  ball ! 

Let  Austria  clear  thy  way,  with  hands 
Foul  from  Ancona's  cruel  sack, 

And  Naples,  with  his  dastard  bands 
Of  murderers,  lead  thee  back ! 

Rome's  lips  are  dumb;  the  orphan's 

wail, 
The   mother's    shriek,   thou    mayst 

not  hear 

Above  the  faithless  Frenchman's  hail, 
The  unsexed  shaveling's  cheer! 

Go,  bind  on  Rome  her  cast-off  weight, 
The  double    curse    of    crook    and 

crown, 

Though    woman's    scorn    and    man 
hood's  hate 
From  wall  and  roof  flash  down ! 

Nor  heed  those  blood-stains  on  the 
wall, 

Not  Tiber's  flood  can  wash  away, 
Where,  in  thy  stately  Quirinal, 

Thy  mangled  victims  lay ! 

Let  the  world  murmur;  let  its  cry 
Of  horror  and  disgust  be  heard; — 

Truth  stands  alone;  thy  coward  lie 
Is  backed  by  lance  and  sword! 

The  cannon  of  St.  Angelo, 

And   chanting  priest   and   clanging 

bell, 
And  beat  of  drum  and  bugle  blow, 

Shall  greet  thy  coming  well ! 

Let  lips  of  iron  and  tongues  of  slaves 
Fit    welcome    give    thee ; — for    her 

part, 
Rome,   frowning  o'er  her  new-made 

graves, 
Shall  curse  thee  from  her  heart ! 

No  wreaths  of  sad  Campagna's  flow 
ers 
Shall    childhood    in     thy     pathway 

fling; 

No  garlands  from  their  ravaged  bow 
ers 
Shall  Terni's  maidens  bring; 


But,  hateful  as  that  tyrant  old, 
The  mocking  witness  of  his  crime, 

In  thee  shall  loathing  eyes  behold 
The  Nero  of  our  time ! 

Stand  where  Rome's  blood  was  freest 

shed, 
Mock  Heaven  with  impious  thanks, 

and  call 

Its  curses  on  the  patriot  dead, 
Its  blessings  on  the  Gaul ! 

Or  sit  upon  thy  throne  of  lies, 
A     poor,      mean     idol,      blood-be 
smeared, 

Whom  even  its  worshippers  despise, — 
Unhonored,  unrevered ! 

Yet,  Scandal  of  the  World !  from  thee 
One  heedful  truth    mankind    shall 
learn, — 

That  kings  and  priests  to  Liberty 
And  God  are  false  in  turn. 

Earth  wearies  of  them;  and  the  long 
Meek   sufferance   of    the    Heavens 

doth  fail; 
Woe   for    weak    tyrants,    when    the 

strong 
Wake,  struggle,  and  prevail! 

Not  vainly  Roman  hearts  have  bled 
To  feed  the  Crozier  and  the  Crown, 

If,    roused   thereby,   the    world    shall 

tread 
The  twin-born  vampires  down ! 


ELLIOTT. 

HANDS  off!  thou  tithe-fat  plunderer! 
play 

No  trick  of  priestcraft  here! 
Back,  puny  lordling!  darest  thou  lay 

A  hand  on  Elliott's  bier? 
Alive,  your  rank  and  pomp,  as  dust, 

Beneath  his  feet  he  trod : 
He  knew  the  locust  swarm  that  cursed 

The  harvest-fields  of  God. 


ICHABOD. 


185 


On  these    pale    lips,    the    smothered 

thought 

Which  England's  millions  feel, 
A  fierce  and  fearful  splendor  caught, 

As  from  his  forge  the  steel. 
Strong-armed  as  Thor, — a  shower  of 

fire 

His  smitten  anvil  flung; 
God's   curse,    Earth's    wrong,    dumb 

Hunger's  ire, — 
He  gave  them  all  a  tongue! 

Then  let  the  poor  man's  horny  hands 

Bear  up  the  mighty  dead, 
And  labor's  swart  and  stalwart  bands 

Behind  as   mourners  tread. 
Leave  cant  and  craft  their  baptized 
bounds, 

Leave  rank  its  minster  floor; 
Give    England's    green    and    daisied 
grounds 

The  poet  of  the  poor ! 

Lay    down    upon    his    Sheaf's    green 

verge 

That  brave  old  heart  of  oak, 
With     fitting     dirge    from    sounding 

forge, 

And  pall  of  furnace  smoke! 
Where    whirls    the    stone    its    dizzy 

rounds, 

And  axe  and  sledge  are  swung, 
And,  timing  to  their  stormy  sounds, 
His  stormy  lays  are  sung. 

There  let  the  peasant's  step  be  heard, 

The  grinder  chant  his  rhyme ; 
Nor  patron's  praise  nor  dainty  word 

Befits  the  man  or  time. 
No  soft  lament  nor  dreamer's  sigh 

For     him     whose      words      were 

bread,— 
The  Runic  rhyme  and  spell  whereby 

The  foodless  poor  were  fed! 

Pile  up  thy  tombs  of  rank  and  pride, 

O  England,  as  thou  wilt! 
With  pomp  to  nameless  worth  denied, 

Emblazon  titled  guilt! 
No  part  or  lot  in  these  we  claim ; 

But,  o'er  the  sounding  wave, 


A  common  right  to  Elliott's  name, 
A  freehold  in  his  grave! 


ICHABOD! 

So   fallen!    so    lost!    the   light   with 
drawn 

Which  once  he  wore ! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 

Forevermore ! 

Revile   him   not, — the   Tempter    hath 

A  snare  for  all ; 

And   pitying    tears,    not    scorn    and 
wrath, 

Befit  his  fall ! 

O,  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might 
Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age, 

Falls  back  in  night. 

Scorn!   would   the   angels    laugh,   to 
mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 

From  hope  and  heaven! 

Let  not  the  land  once  proud  of  him 

Insult  him  now, 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 

Dishonored  brow. 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  naught 

Save  power  remains,^- 
A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 

Still  strong  in  chains. 

All  else  is  gone ;  from  those  great  eyes 

The  soul  has  fled: 
When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 

The  man  is  dead ! 

Then,  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame ; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 

And  hide  the  shame! 


186 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  TOURISTS. 

No  aimless  wanderers,  by  the  fiend 

Unrest 

Goaded  from  shore  to  shore; 
No  schoolmen,  turning,  in  their  classic 

quest, 

The  leaves  of  empire  o'er. 
Simple  of  faith,  and  bearing  in  their 

hearts 

The  love  of  man  and  God, 
Isles  of  old  song,  the  Moslem's  an 
cient  marts, 
And  Scythia's  steppes,  they  trod. 

Where  the  long  shadows  of  the  fir 

and  pine 

In  the  night  sun  are  cast, 
And  the  deep  heart  of  many  a  Nor 
land  mine 

Quakes  at  each  riving  blast; 
Where,  in  barbaric  grandeur,  Moskwa 

stands, 

A  baptized   Scythian  queen, 
With  Europe's  arts  and  Asia's  jew 
elled  hands, 
The  North  and  East  between ! 

Where  still,  through  vales  of  Grecian 

fable,  stray 

The  classic  forms  of  yore, 
And  Beauty  smiles,  new  risen   from 

the  spray, 

And  Dian  weeps  once  more; 
Where    every    tongue     in     Smyrna's 

mart  resounds ; 
And  Stamboul  from  the  sea 
Lifts  her  tall  minarets   over  burial- 
grounds 
Black  with  the  cypress-tree! 

From  Malta's  temples  to  the  gates  of 

Rome, 

Following  the  track  of  Paul, 
And  where  the  Alps  gird  round  the 

Switzer's  home 
Their  vast,  eternal  wall; 
They  paused  not  by  the  ruins  of  old 

time, 
They  scanned  no  pictures  rare, 


Nor  lingered  where  the  snow-locked 

mountains  climb 
The  cold  abyss  of  air! 

But  unto  prisons,  where  men  lay  in 

chains, 

To  haunts  where  Hunger  pined, 
To  kings  and  courts  forgetful  of  the 

pains 

And  wants  of  human-kind, 
Scattering   sweet    words,    and    quiet 

deeds  of  good, 

Along  their  way,  like  flowers, 
Or  pleading,  as  Christ's  freemen  only 

could, 
With  princes  and  with  powers ; 


Their  single  aim  the  purpose  to  fulfil 

Of  Truth,  from  day  to  day, 
Simply  obedient  to  its  guiding  will, 

They  held  their  pilgrim  way. 
Yet   dream  not,   hence,  the  beautiful 
and  old 

Were  wasted  on  their  sight, 
Who    in    the    school    of    Christ    had 
learned  to  hold 

All  outward  things  aright. 


Not  less  to  them  the  breath  of  vine 
yards  blown 

From  off  the  Cyprian  shore, 
Not  less  for  them  the  Alps  in  sunset 

shone, 

That  man  they  valued  more. 
A  life  of  beauty  lends  to  all  it  sees 

The  beauty  of  its  thought ; 
And  fairest  forms  and  sweetest  har 
monies 
Make  glad  its  way,  unsought. 


In    sweet    accordancy   of  praise   and 

love, 

The  singing  waters  run; 
And  sunset  mountains  wear  in  light 

above 

The  smile  of  duty  done ; 
Sure  stands  the  promise, — ever  to  the 

meek 
A  heritage  is  given; 


THE  MEN  OF  OLD. 


187 


Nor  lose  they    Earth    who,    single- 
hearted,  seek 
The  righteousness  of  Heaven! 


THE  MEN  OF  OLD. 

WELL  speed  thy  mission,  bold  Icono 
clast  ! 
Yet  all  unworthy  of  its  trust  thou 

art, 

If,  with  dry  eye,  and  cold,  unloving 
heart, 

Thou  tread'st  the  solemn  Pantheon  of 

the  Past, 
By  the  great  Future's  dazzling  hope 

made  blind 

To  all  the  beauty,  power,  and  truth 
behind. 

Not  without  reverent    awe    shouldst 

thou  put  by 

The  cypress  branches  and  the  ama 
ranth  blooms, 

Where,     with     clasped     hands     of 
prayer,  upon  their  tombs 

The  effigies  of  old  confessors  lie, 

God's    witnesses;    the   voices    of   his 
will, 

Heard  in  the  slow  march  of  the  cen 
turies  still! 

Such  were  the  men  at  whose  rebuking 
frown, 

Dark  with  God's  wrath,  the  tyrant's 
knee  went  down ; 

Such  from  the  terrors  of  the  guilty 
drew 

The  vassal's   freedom  and  the  poor 
man's  due. 

St.  Anselm  (may  he  rest  forevermore 
In  Heaven's  sweet  peace!)  forbade, 

of  old,  the  sale 
Of  men   as    slaves,   and   from  the 

sacred  pale 
Hurled  the  Northumbrian  buyers  of 

the  poor. 
To  ransom  souls  from  bonds  and  evil 

fate 
St.  Ambrose  melted  down  the  sacred 

plate, — 


Image  of  saint,  the  chalice,  and  the 
pix, 

Crosses  of  gold,  and  silver  candle 
sticks. 

"  MAN  IS  WORTH  MORE  THAN  TEM 
PLES  !  "  he  replied 

To  such  as  came  his  holy  work  to 
chide. 

And  brave  Cesarius,  stripping  altars 

bare, 

And     coining     from    the     Abbey's 
golden  hoard 

The  captive's    freedom,  answered  to 

the  prayer 

Or  threat  of  those  whose  fierce  zeal 
for  the  Lord 

Stifled     their     love     of     man, — "  An 

earthen  dish 

The  last  sad  supper  of  the  Master 
bore : 

Most  miserable  sinners !  do  ye  wish 
More  than  your  Lord,  and  grudge 
his  dying  poor 

What   your  own   pride  and  not  his 

need  requires? 

Souls,  than  these  shining  gauds,  He 
values  more; 

Mercy,  not  sacrifice,  his  heart  de 
sires  !  " 

O  faithful  worthies!  resting  far  be 
hind 

In  your  dark  ages,  since  ye  fell  asleep, 

Much  has  been  done  for  truth  and 
human-kind, — 

Shadows  are  scattered  wherein  ye 
groped  blind; 

Man  claims  his  birthright,  freer  pulses 
leap 

Through  peoples  driven  in  your  day 
like  sheep; 

Yet,  like  your  own,  our  age's  sphere 
of  light, 

Though  widening  still,  is  walled 
around  by  night ; 

With  slow,  reluctant  eye,  the  Church 
has  read, 

Sceptic  at  heart,  the  lessons  of  its 
Head; 

Counting,  too  oft,  its  living  members 
less 

Than  the  wall's  garnish  and  the  pul 
pit's  dress; 


188 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


World-moving  zeal,   with    power    to 

bless  and  feed 
Life's  fainting  pilgrims,  to  their  utter 

need, 
Instead  of  bread,  holds  out  the  stone 

of  creed; 
Sect   builds   and   worships   where  its 

wealth  and  pride 

And  vanity  stand  shrined  and  deified, 
Careless   that   in   the   shadow   of   its 

walls 

God's  living  temple  into  ruin  falls. 
We  need,  methmks,  the  prophet-hero 

still, 
Saints  true  of  life,  and  martyrs  strong 

of  will, 
To   tread    the    land,    even    now,   as 

Xavier  trod 
The  streets  of  Goa,  barefoot,  with 

his  bell, 
Proclaiming  freedom  in  the  name  of 

God, 
And  startling  tyrants  with  the  fear 

of  hell ! 
Soft  words,  smooth  prophecies,  are 

doubtless  well ; 

But  to  rebuke  the  age's  popular  crime, 
We  need  the  souls  of  fire,  the  hearts 

of  that  old  time! 


THE  PEACE  CONVENTION  AT 
BRUSSELS. 

STILL  in  thy  streets,  O   Paris!   doth 

the  stain 
Of  blood  defy  the  cleansing  autumn 

rain; 
Still  breaks  the  smoke  Messina's  ruins 

through, 

And  Naples  mourns  that  new   Bar 
tholomew, 
When  squalid  beggary,  for  a  dole  of 

bread, 
At    a    crowned    murderer's    beck    of 

license,  fed 
The  yawning  trenches  with  her  noble 

dead; 
Still,    doomed    Vienna,    through    thy 

stately  halls 


The  shell  goes  crashing  and  the  red 

shot  falls, 
And,   leagued  to   crush   thee,   on  the 

Danube's  side, 
The     bearded     Croat     and     Bosniak 

spearman   ride ; 
Still   in   that   vale  where   Himalaya's 

snow 
Melts    round   the   cornfields   and   the 

vines  below, 
The  Sikh's  hot  cannon,  answering  ball 

for  ball, 
Flames    in   the   breach    of   Moultan's 

shattered  wall ; 
On  Chenab's   side  the  vulture   seeks 

the  slain, 
And  Sutlej  paints  with  blood  its  banks 

again. 
"  What  folly,  then,"  the  faithless  critic 

cries, 

With   sneering  lip,   and  wise,  world- 
knowing  eyes, 
"  While  fort  to  fort,  and  post  to  post, 

repeat 

The  ceaseless  challenge  of  the  war- 
drum's  beat, 
And   round   the   green   earth,   to   the 

church-bell's  chime, 
The  morning  drum-roll  of  the  camp 

keeps  time, 
To  dream  of  peace  amidst  a  world  in 

arms, 
Of   swords  to   ploughshares  changed 

by  Scriptural  charms, 
Of  nations,  drunken  with  the  wine  of 

blood, 
Staggering   to    take   the     Pledge     of 

Brotherhood, 
Like      tipplers       answering      Father 

Mathew's  call, — • 

The   sullen    Spaniard,   and   the   mad 
cap  Gaul, 
The  bull-dog  Briton,  yielding  but  with 

life, 
The    Yankee     swaggering    with    his 

bowie-knife, 
The    Russ,    from   banquets    with   the 

vulture  shared, 
The    blood    still    dripping    from    his 

amber  beard, 


THE  PEACE  CONFERENCE  AT  BRUSSELS. 


189 


Quitting  their  mad  Berserker  dance 
to  hear 

The  dull,  meek  droning  of  a  drab- 
coat  seer ; 

Leaving  the  sport  of  Presidents  and 
Kings, 

Where  men  for  dice  each  titled  gam 
bler  flings, 

To  meet  alternate  on  the  Seine  and 
Thames, 

For  tea  and  gossip,  like  old  country 
dames ! 

No !  let  the  cravens  plead  the  weak 
ling's  cant. 

Let  Cobden  cipher,  and  let  Vincent 
rant, 

Let    Sturge   preach    peace   to    demo 
cratic  throngs, 

And  Burritt,  stammering  through  his 
hundred  tongues, 

Repeat,  in  all,  his  ghostly  lessons  o'er, 

Timed  to  the  pauses  of  the  battery's 
roar ; 

Check  Ban  or  Kaiser  with  the  barri 
cade 

Of    '  Olive-leaves '    and     Resolutions 
made, 

Spike   guns    with   pointed    Scripture- 
texts,  and  hope 

To  capsize  navies  with  a  windy  trope : 

Still  shall  the  glory  and  the  pomp  of 
War 

Along  their  train  the  shouting  mil 
lions  draw ; 

Still  dusty  Labor  to  the  passing  Brave 

His  cap  shall  doff,  and  Beauty's  ker 
chief  wave ; 

Still  shall  the  bard  to  Valor  tune  his 
song, 

Still   Hero-worship  kneel  before  the 
Strong; 

Rosy    and    sleek,    the    sable-gowned 
divine, 

O'er   his    third   bottle   of    suggestive 
wine, 

To    plumed    and    sworded    auditors, 
shall  prove 

Their  trade  accordant  with  the  Law 
of  Love; 


And  Church  for  State,  and  State  for 

Church,  shall  fight, 
And  both  agree,  that  Might  alone  is 

Right !  " 

Despite  of  sneers  like  these,  O  faith 
ful  few, 
Who   dare  to  hold  God's  word  and 

witness  true, 
Whose    clear-eyed     faith     transcends 

our  evil  time, 
And  o'er  the  present   wilderness  of 

crime, 
Sees  the  calm  future,  with  its  robes 

of  green, 
Its  fleece-flecked  mountains,  and  soft 

streams  between, — 
Still  keep  the  path  which  duty  bids 

ye  tread, 
Though    worldly    wisdom    shake   the 

cautious  head; 
No  truth  from  Heaven  descends  upon 

our  sphere, 
Without  the  greeting  of  the  sceptic's 

sneer ; 

Denied  and  mocked  at,  till  its  bless 
ings  fall, 
Common  as  dew  and  sunshine,  over 

all. 


Then,  o'er  Earth's  war-field,  till  the 

strife  shall  cease, 
Like    Morven's    harpers,     sing     your 

song  of  peace ; 
As  in  old  fable  rang  the  Thracian's 

lyre, 
Midst   howl    of   fiends    and    roar   of 

penal  fire, 

Till  the  fierce  din   to   pleasing  mur 
murs  fell, 
And  love  subdued  the  maddened  heart 

of  hell. 
Lend,   once  again,  that  holy  song  a 

tongue, 
Which  the  glad  angels  of  the  Advent 

sung, 
Their  cradle-anthem  for  the  Saviour's 

birth, 
Glory   to    God,   and  peace   unto    the 

earth ! 
Through  the  mad  discord  send  that 

calming  word 


190 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Which  wind  and  wave  on  wild  Genes- 
areth  heard, 

Lift  in  Christ's  name  his  Cross  against 
the  Sword! 

Not  vain  the  vision  which  the  proph 
ets  saw, 

Skirting  with  green  the  fiery  waste  of 
war, 

Through  the  hot  sand-gleam,  looming 
soft  and  calm 

On  the  sky's  rim,  the  fountain-shad 
ing  palm. 

Still  lives  for  Earth,  which  fiends  so 
long  have  trod, 

The  great  hope  resting  on  the  truth 
of  God, — 

Evil  shall  cease  and  Violence  pass 
away, 

And  the  tired  world  breathe  free 
through  a  long  Sabbath  day. 

nth  mo.,  1848. 


THE  WISH  OF  TO-DAY. 

I  ASK  not  now  for  gold  to  gild 
With     mocking     shine     a     weary 
frame ; 

The  yearning  of  the  mind  is  stilled, — • 
I  ask  not  now  for  Fame. 

A  rose-cloud,  dimly  seen  above, 
Melting  in    heaven's    blue    depths 
away, — • 

O,  sweet,  fond  dream  of  human  Love  ! 
For  thee  I  may  not  pray. 

But,  bowed  in  lowliness  of  mind, 

I  make  my  humble  wishes  known, — 
I  only  ask  a  will  resigned, 

0  Father,  to  thine  own! 

To-day,  beneath  thy  chastening  eye 

1  crave  alone  for  peace  and  rest, 
Submissive  in  thy  hand  to  lie, 

And  feel  that  it  is  best. 

A  marvel  seems  the  Universe, 
A  miracle  our  Life  and  Death; 

A  mystery  which  I  cannot  pierce, 
Around,  above,  beneath. 


In  vain  I  task  my  aching  brain, 
In  vain  the  sage's  thought  I  scan, 

I  only  feel  how  weak  and  vain, 
How  poor  and  blind,  is  man. 

And  now  my  spirit  sighs  for  home, 
And  longs  for  light  whereby  to  see, 

And,  like  a  weary  child,  would  come, 
O  Father,  unto  thee! 

Though  oft,  like  letters  traced  on 
sand, 

My  weak  resolves  have  passed  away, 
In  mercy  lend  thy  helping  hand 

Unto  my  prayer  "io-day! 


OUR  STATE. 

THE   South-land  boasts    its   teeming 

cane, 

The  prairied  West  its  heavy  gram, 
And  sunset's  radiant  gates  unfold 
On  rising  marts  and  sands  of  gold! 

Rough,  bleak,  and    hard,    our    little 

State 

Is  scant  of  soil,  of  limits  strait; 
Her  yellow  sands  are  sands  alone, 
Her  only  mines  are  ice  and  stone! 

From  Autumn  frost  to  April  rain, 
Too  long  her  winter  woods  complain ; 
From  budding  flower  to  falling  leaf, 
Her  summer  time  is  all  too  brief. 

Yet,  on  her  rocks,  and  on  her  sands, 
And  wintry  hills,    the    school-house 

stands, 

And  what  her  rugged  soil  denies, 
The  harvest  of  the  mind  supplies. 

The  riches  of  the  Commonwealth 
Are  free,  strong  minds,  and  hearts  of 

health ; 

And  more  to  her  than  gold  or  grain, 
The  cunning  hand  and  cultured  brain. 

For  well  she  keeps  her  ancient  stock, 
The    stubborn    strength    of    Pilgrim 
Rock; 


TO  A.  K. 


191 


And  still  maintains,  with  milder  laws, 
And    clearer    light,    the     Good     Old 
Cause ! 

Nor  heeds  the  sceptic's  puny  hands, 
While  near   her   school   the  church- 
spire  stands ; 

Nor  fears  the  blinded  bigot's  rule, 
While  near  her   church-spire  stands 
the  school. 


ALL'S  WELL. 

THE  clouds,  which  rise  with  thunder, 
slake 

Our  thirsty  souls  with  rain; 
The  blow  most  dreaded  falls  to  break 

From  off  our  limbs  a  chain ; 
And  wrongs  of  man  to  man  but  make 

The  love  of  God  more  plain. 
As  through  the  shadowy  lens  of  even 
The  eye  looks  farthest  into  heaven 
On  gleams  of  star  and  depths  of  blue 
The  glaring  sunshine  never  knew! 


SEED-TIME  AND  HARVEST. 

As  o'er  his  furrowed  fields  which  lie 
Beneath  a  coldly-dropping  sky, 
Yet  chill  with  winter's  melted  snow, 
The  husbandman  goes  forth  to  sow, 

Thus,  Freedom,  on  the  bitter  blast 
The  ventures  of  thy  seed  we  cast, 
And  trust  to  warmer  sun  and  rain 
To  swell  the  germ,  and  fill  the  grain. 

Who  calls  thy  glorious  service  hard? 
Who  deems  it  not  its  own  reward? 
Who,  for  its  trials,  counts  it  less 
A  cause  of  praise  and  thankfulness? 

It  may  not  be  our  lot  to  wield 
The  sickle  in  the  ripened  field; 
Nor  ours  to  hear,  on  summer  eves, 
The  reaper's  song  among  the  sheaves. 


Yet  where  our  duty's  task  is  wrought 
In  unison  with  God's  great  thought, 
The  near  and  future  blend  in  one, 
And  whatsoe'er  is  willed,  is  done ! 

And  ours  the  grateful  service  whence 
Comes,  day  by  day,  the  recompense; 
The  hope,  the  trust,  the  purpose 

stayed, 
The  fountain  and  the  noonday  shade. 

And  were  this  life  the  utmost  span, 
The  only  end  and  aim  of  man, 
Better  the  toil  of  fields  like  these 
Than  waking  dream  and  slothful  ease. 

But  life,  though  falling  like  our  grain, 
Like  that  revives  and  springs  again; 
And,  early  called,  how  blest  are  they 
Who  wait  in  heaven  their  harvest- 
day! 


TO  A.  K. 

ON  RECEIVING  A  BASKET  OF  SEA-MOSSES. 

THANKS  for  thy  gift 

Of  ocean  flowers, 
Born  where  the  golden  drift 
Of  the  slant  sunshine  falls 
Down  the  green,  tremulous  walls 
Of   water,    to    the   cool    still    coral 

bowers, 
Where,  under  rainbows  of  perpetual 

showers, 

God's  gardens  of  the  deep 
His  patient  angels  keep ; 
Gladdening  the   dim,    strange   soli 
tude 
With  fairest  forms  and  hues,  and 

thus 

Forever  teaching  us 
The  lesson  which   the  many-colored 

skies, 
The  flowers,  and  leaves,  and  painted 

butterflies, 
The  deer's  branched  antlers,  the  gay 

bird  that  flings 

The  tropic  sunshine  from  its  golden 
wings, 


192 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


The  brightness  of  the  human  counte 
nance, 
Its   play  of   smiles,   the   magic  of  a 

glance, 

Forevermore  repeat, 
In  varied  tones  and  sweet, 
That   beauty,   in   and  of    itself,   is 
good. 

O  kind  and  generous  friend,  o'er 

whom 

The  sunset  hues  of  Time  are  cast, 
Painting,  upon  the  overpast 
And  scattered  clouds  of  noonday 

sorrow 

The  promise  of  a  fairer  morrow, 
An    earnest    of   the   better    life   to 

come; 

The  binding  of  the  spirit  broken, 
The  warning  to  the  erring  spoken, 

The  comfort  of  the  sad, 
The  eye  to  see,  the  hand  to  cull 
Of  common  things  the  beautiful, 

The  absent  heart  made  glad 
By  simple  gift  or  graceful  token 
Of  love  it  needs  as  daily  food, 
All  own  one  Source,  and  all  are 

good! 
Hence,  tracking  sunny  cove  and 

reach, 
Where  spent  waves  glimmer  up 

the  beach, 
And  toss  their  gifts  of  weed  and 

shell 
^rom  foamy  curve  and  combing 

swell, 

No  unbefitting  task  was  thine 
To  weave  these  flowers  so  soft 

and   fair 
In  unison  with  His  design 

Who  loveth  beauty  everywhere ; 
And   makes   in    every   zone   and 

clime, 

In  ocean  and  in  upper  air, 
"All   things    beautiful    in    their 

time." 
For  not  alone  in  tones  of  awe  and 

power 
He  speaks  to  man; 


The  cloudy  horror  of  the  thunder- 
shower 

His  rainbows  span ; 
And  where  the  caravan 
Winds  o'er  the  desert,  leaving,  as  in 

air 
The  crane-flock  leaves,  no   trace  of 

passage  there, 
He  gives  the  weary  eye 
The   palm-leaf    shadow    for   the   hot 

noon  hours, 

And  on  its  branches  dry 
Calls  out  the  acacia's  flowers; 
And  where  the  dark  shaft  pierces 

down 

Beneath   the   mountain   roots, 
Seen  by  the  miner's  lamp  alone, 
The  star-like  crystal  shoots; 
So,  where,  the  winds  and  waves 

below, 
The       coral-branched        gardens 

grow, 
His  climbing  weeds  and  mosses 

show, 

Like  foliage,  on  each  stony  bough, 
Of   varied   hues   more    strangely 

gay 
Than   forest  leaves   in  autumn's 

day; — 

Thus  evermore, 
On  sky,  and  wave,  and  shore, 
An  all-pervading  beauty  seems  to 

say: 
God's  love  and  power  are  one; 

and  they, 
Who,  like  the  thunder  of  a  sultry 

day, 

Smite  to  restore, 
And  they,  who,  like  the  gentle  wind, 

uplift 
The   petals  of  the  dew-wet  flowers, 

and  drift 

Their  perfume  on  the  air, 
Alike  may  serve  Him,  each,  with  their 

own  gift, 
Making  their  lives  a  prayer ! 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 


193 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS,  AND 
OTHER  POEMS,  1852. 


'"  i  DO  believe,  and  yet,  in  grief, 
I  pray  for  help  to  unbelief; 
For  needful  strength  aside  to  lay 
The  daily  cumberings  of  my  way. 

"  I  'm  sick  at  heart  of  craft  and  cant, 
Sick  of  the  crazed  enthusiast's  rant, 
Profession's   smooth   hypocrisies, 
And  creeds  of  iron,  and  lives  of  ease. 

"  I  ponder  o'er  the  sacred  word, 
I  read  the  record  of  our  Lord; 
And,  weak  and  troubled,  envy  them 
Who  touched  his  seamless  garment's 
hem ; — • 

"  Who  saw  the  tears  of  love  he  wept 
Above  the  grave  where  Lazarus  slept ; 
And  heard,  amidst  the 'shadows  dim 
Of  Olivet,  his  evening  hymn. 

"  How   blessed    the   swineherd's   low 

estate, 

The  beggar  crouching  at  the  gate, 
The  leper  loathly  and  abhorred, 
Whose  eyes  of  flesh  beheld  the  Lord ! 

"O   sacred   soil  his   sandals  pressed! 
Sweet  fountains  of  his  noonday  rest ! 
O  light  and  air  of  Palestine, 
Impregnate  with  his  life  divine ! 

"  O,  bear  me  thither !    Let  me  look 
On      Siloa's      pool,     and      Kedron's 

brook, — 

Kneel  at  Gethsemane,  and  by 
Genesaret  walk,  before  I  die ! 

"  Methinks     this    cold    and    northern 

night 

Would  melt  before  that  Orient  light; 
And,  wet  by  Hermon's  dew  and  rain, 
My  childhood's  faith  revive  again !  " 


So  spake  my  friend,  one  autumn  day, 
Where  the  still  river  slid  away 
Beneath  us,  and  above  the  brown 
Red  curtains  of  the  woods  shut  down. 

Then  said  I, — for  I  could  not  brook 
The  mute  appealing  of  his  look, — 
"  I,  too,  am  weak,  and  faith  is  small, 
And  blindness  happeneth  unto  all. 

"  Yet,    sometimes     glimpses    on    my 

sight, 
Through  present  wrong,   the   eternal 

right ; 

And,  step  by  step,  since  time  began, 
I  see  the  steady  gain  of  man ; 

"  That  all  of  good  the  past  hath  had 
Remains  to  make  our  own  time 

glad,- 

Our  common  daily  life  divine, 
And  every  land  a  Palestine. 

"  Thou  weariest  of  thy  present  state ; 
What  gain  to  thee  time's  holiest  date? 
The  doubter  now  perchance  had  been 
As  High  Priest  or  as  Pilate  then! 

"What   thought    Chorazin's    scribes? 

What  faith 

In  Him  had  Nain  and  Nazareth? 
Of  the  few  followers  whom  He  led 
One  sold  him, — all  forsook  and  fled. 

"  O  friend !  we  need  nor  rock  nor 
sand, 

Nor  storied  stream  of  Morning- 
Land; 

The  heavens  are  glassed  in  Merri- 
mack, — 

What  more  could  Jordan  render 
back? 

"  We  lack  but  open  eye  and  ear 
To  find  the  Orient's  marvels  here; — 


104 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 


The  still  small  voice  in  autumn's  hush, 
Yon  maple  wood  the  burning  bush. 

"  For    still    the    new   transcends    the 

old, 

In  signs  and  tokens  manifold; — 
Slaves  rise  up  men;  the  olive  waves, 
With  roots  deep  set  in  battle  graves ! 

"  Through  the  harsh  noises  of  our  day 
A  low,  sweet  prelude  finds  its  way; 
Through  clouds  of  doubt,  and  creeds 

of  fear, 
A  light  is  breaking,  calm  and  clear. 

"That  song  of  Love,  now  low  and 

far, 

Erelong  shall  swell  from  star  to  star ! 
That  light,  the  breaking  day,  which 

tips 
The  golden-spired  Apocalypse !  " 

Then,   when   my  good   friend   shook 

his  head, 

And,  sighing,  sadly  smiled,  I  said: 
"  Thou  mind'st  me  of  a  story  told 
In  rare  Bernardin's  leaves  of  gold." 

And  while  the  slanted  sunbeams  wove 
The  shadows  of  the  frost-stained 

grove, 

And,  picturing  all,  the  river  ran 
O'er  cloud  and  wood,  I  thus  began: 


In  Mount  Valerien's  chestnut  wood 
The  Chapel  of  the  Hermits  stood; 
And  thither,  at  the  close  of  day, 
Came   two    old    pilgrims,    worn   and 
gray. 

One,  whose  impetuous  youth  defied 
The  storms  of  Baikal's  wintry  side, 
And  mused  and  dreamed  where  tropic 

day 
Flamed  o'er  his  lost  Virginia's  bay. 

His  simple  tale  of  love  and  woe 
All  hearts  had  melted,  high  or  low ; — 


A  blissful  pain,  a  sweet  distress, 
Immortal  in  its  tenderness. 

Yet,  while  above  his  charmed  page 
Beat  quick  the  young  heart  of  his  age, 
He  walked    amidst    the    crowd    un 
known, 

A   sorrowing  old   man,   strange  and 
lone. 

A  homeless,  troubled  age, — the  gray 
Pale  setting  of  a  weary  day ; 
Too  dull  his  ear  for  voice  of  praise, 
Too  sadly  worn  his  brow  for  bays. 

Pride,  lust  of  power  and  glory,  slept ; 
Yet  still  his  heart  its  young  dream 

kept, 

And,  wandering  like  the  deluge-dove, 
Still  sought  the  resting-place  of  love. 

And,  mateless,  childless,  envied  more 
The  peasant's  welcome  from  his  door 
By  smiling  eyes  at  eventide, 
Than  kingly  gifts  or  lettered  pride. 

Until,  in  place  of  wife  and  child, 
All-pitying  Nature  on  him  smiled, 
And  gave  to  him  the  golden  keys 
To  all  her  inmost  sanctities. 

Mild  Druid  of  her  wood-paths  dim! 
She  laid  her  great  heart  bare  to  him, 
Its  loves  and  sweet  accords ; — he  saw 
The  beauty  of  her  perfect  law. 

The  language  of  her  signs  he  knew, 
What  notes  her  cloudy  clarion  blew; 
The  rhythm  of  autumn's  forest  dyes, 
The  hymn  of  sunset's  painted  skies. 

And  thus  he  seemed  to  hear  the  song 
Which  swept,  of  old,  the  stars  along; 
And  to  his  eyes  the  earth  once  more 
Its  fresh  and  primal  beauty  wore. 

Who  sought  with  him,  from  summer 

air, 

And  field  and  wood,  a  balm  for  care; 
And  bathed  in  light  of  sunset  skies 
His  tortured  nerves  and  weary  eyes? 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 


195 


His  fame  on  all  the  winds  had  flown ; 
His   words    had    shaken    crypt    and 

throne ; 

Like  fire,  on  camp  and  court  and  eel] 
They   dropped,   and   kindled    as   they 

fell. 

Beneath  the  pomps  of  state,  below 
The    mitred    juggler's    masque     and 

show, 

A  prophecy — a  vague  hope — ran 
PI  is    burning    thought    from   man    to 


For  peace  or  rest  too  well  he  saw 
The  fraud  of  priests,  the  wrong  of 

law ; 

Anc1  f  It  how  hard,  between  the  two, 
Th  Breath  of  pain  the  millions 

diew. 

A  prophet-utterance,  strong  and  wild, 
The  weakness  of  an  unweaned  child, 
A  sun-bright  hope  for  human-kind, 
And  self-despair,  in  him  combined. 

He   loathed  the   false,   yet   lived   not 

true 

To  half  the  glorious  truths  he  knew; 
The  doubt,  the  discord,  and  the  sin, 
He  mourned  without,  he  felt  within. 

Untrod  by  him  the  path  he  showed, 
Sweet  pictures  on  his  easel  glowed 
Of  simple  faith,  and  loves  of  home, 
And  virtue's  golden  days  to  come. 

But  weakness,  shame,  and  folly  made 
The  foil  to  all  his  pen  portrayed; 
Still,    where    his     dreamy    splendors 

shone, 
The  shadow  of  himself  was  thrown. 

Lord,  what  is  man,  whose  thought,  at 

times, 

Up  to  thy  sevenfold  brightness  climbs, 
While  still  his  grosser  instinct  clings 
To  earth,  like  other  creeping  things ! 

So  rich  in  words,  in  acts  so  mean; 
So   high,   so    low ;    chance-swung  be 
tween 


The  foulness  of  the  penal  pit 
And   Truth's   clear   sky,  millennium- 
lit! 

Vain  pride  of  star-lent  genius! — vain 
Quick  fancy  and  creative  brain, 
Unblest  by  prayerful   sacrifice, 
Absurdly  great,  or  weakly  wise ! 

Midst  yearnings  for  a  truer  life, 
Without  were  fears,  within  was  strife ; 
And  still  his  wayward  act  denied 
The  perfect  good  for  which  he  sighed. 

The  love  he  sent  forth  void  returned ; 
The  fame  that  crowned  him  scorched 

and  burned, 
Burning,    yet    cold    and     drear     and 

lone, — 
A  fire-mount  in  a  frozen  zone! 

Like  that    the    gray-haired    sea-king 

passed, 

Seen  southward  from  his  sleety  mast, 
About    whose   brows     of    changeless 

frost 
A   wreath  of  flame   the   wild  winds 

tossed. 

Far  round  the  mournful  beauty  played 
Of  lambent  light  and  purple  shade, 
Lost  on  the  fixed  and  dumb  despair 
Of  frozen  earth  and  sea  and  air! 

A  man  apart,  unknown,  unloved 

By  those  whose  wrongs  his  soul  had 

moved, 

He  bore  the  ban  of  Church  and  State, 
The  good  man's  fear,  the  bigot's  hate ! 

Forth     from     the     city's    noise     and 

throng, 
Its  pomp  and  shame,  its  sin  and 

wrong, 
The  twain  that  summer  day  had 

strayed 
To  Mount  Valerien's  chestnut  shade. 

To   them   the  green  fields    and    the 

wood 

Lent  something  of  their  quietude, 
And  golden-tinted  sunset  seemed 
Prophetical  of  all  they  dreame^. 


196 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 


The  hermits  from  their  simple  cares 
The  bell  was  calling  home  to  prayers, 
And,  listening  to  its  sound,  the  twain 
Seemed  lapped  in  childhood's  trust 
again. 

Wide  open  stood  the  chapel  door ; 
A  sweet  old  music,  swelling  o'er 
Low      prayerful      murmurs,      issued 

thence, — 
The  Litanies  o'f  Providence! 

Then  Rousseau  spake:  "Where  two 

or  three 

In  His  name  meet,  He  there  will  be !" 
And  then,  in  silence,  on  their  knees 
They  sank  beneath  the  chestnut-trees. 

As  to  the  blind  returning  light, 
As  daybreak  to  the  Arctic  night, 
Old  faith  revived :  the  doubts  of  years 
Dissolved  in  reverential  tears. 

That  gush  of  feeling  overpast, 
"  Ah  me !  "  Bernardin  sighed  at  last, 
"  I  would  thy  bitterest  foes  could  see 
Thy  heart  as  it  is  seen  of  me! 

"  No  church  of  God  hast  thou  denied; 
Thou  hast  but  spurned  in  scorn  aside 
A  base  and  hollow  counterfeit, 
Profaning  the  pure  name  of  it ! 

"With    dry    dead   moss   and   marish 

weeds 

His  fire  the  western  herdsman  feeds, 
And  greener  from  the  ashen  plain 
The  sweet  spring  grasses  rise  again. 

"  Nor  thunder-peal  nor  mighty  wind 

Disturb  the  solid   sky  behind"; 

And  through  the  cloud  the  red  bolt 
rends 

The  calm,  still  smile  of  Heaven  de 
scends  ! 

"Thus,  through  the  world,  like  bolt 

and  blast, 
And  scourging  fire,   thy  words  have 

passed. 


Clouds  break, — the  steadfast  heavens 

remain ; 
Weeds    burn, — the     ashes     feed     the 

grain ! 

"  But  whoso  strives  with  wrong  may 

find 

Its  touch  pollute,  its  darkness  blind; 
And  learn,  as  latent  fraud  is  shown 
In  others'  faith,  to  doubt  his  own. 

"  With  dream  and  falsehood,  simple 

trust 

And  pious  hope  we  tread  in  dust; 
Lost   the   calm   faith   in   goodness,— 

lost 
The  baptism  of  the  Pentecost! 

"  Alas  ! — the  blows  for  error  meant 
Too  oft  on  truth  itself  are  spent, 
As  through  the  false  and  vile  and 

base 
Looks  forth  her  sad,  rebuking  face. 

"  Not  ours  the  Theban's  charmed  life ; 
We   come    not    scathless    from    the 

strife ! 

The  Python's  coil  about  us  clings, 
The  trampled  Hydra  bites  and  stings ! 

"  Meanwhile,    the    sport    of    seeming 

chance, 

The  plastic  shapes  of  circumstance, 
What  might  have  been  we  fondly 

guess, 
If  earlier  born,  or  tempted  less. 


"  And   thou,   in   these  wild,  troubled 

days, 

Misjudged  alike  in  blame  and  praise, 
Unsought  and  undeserved  the  same 
The     sceptic's     praise,     the      bigot's 

blame ; — 


"  I  cannot  doubt,  if  thou  hadst  been 
Among  the  highly  favored  men 
Who  walked  on  earth  with  Fenelon, 
He    would   have  owned   thee  as   his 
son; 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 


"  And,  bright  with  wings  of  cherubim 

Visibly  waving  over  him, 

Seen  through  his  life,  the  Church  had 

seemed 
All  that  its  old  confessors  dreamed. 

"  I   would  have   been,"   Jean  Jaques 

replied, 

"  The  humblest  servant  at  his  side, 
Obscure,  unknown,  content  to  see 
How  beautiful  man's  life  may  be ! 

"  O,  more  than  thrice-blest  relic,  more 
Than  solemn  rite  or  sacred  lore, 
The  holy  life  of  one  who  trod 
The  foot-marks  of  the  Christ  of  God ! 

"  Amidst  a  blinded  world  he  saw 

The  oneness  of  the  Dual  law ; 

That  Heaven's  sweet  peace  on  Earth 

began, 
And  God  was  loved  through  love  of 

man. 

"  He  lived  the  Truth,  which  reconciled 
The  strong  man  Reason,  Faith  the 

child: 

In  him  belief  and  act  were  one, 
The  homilies  of  duty  done !  " 

So  speaking,  through  the  twilight  gray 
The  two  old  pilgrims  went  their  way. 
What  seeds  of  life  that  day  were 

sown, 
The   heavenly  watchers   knew  alone. 

Time  passed,   and  Autumn   came  to 

fold 
Green    Summer    in    her    brown    and 

gold; 
Time  passed,  and   Winter's  tears  of 

snow 
Dropped     on    the    grave-mound     of 

Rousseau. 


"  The  tree  remaineth  where  it  fell, 
The    pained    on    earth    is    pained    in 

hell!" 

So  priestcraft  from  its  altars  cursed 
The    mournful    doubts    its    falsehood 

nursed. 


Ah !  well  of  old  :he  Psalmist  prayed, 
"  Thy    hand,    not    man's,    on    me    be 

laid !  " 
Earth   frowns  below,  Heaven   weeps 

above, 
And  man  is  hate,  but  God  is  love ! 

No  Hermits  now  the  wanderer  sees, 
Nor  chapel  with  its  chestnut-trees ; 
A  morning  dream,  a  tale  that 's  told, 
The  wave  of    change    o'er    all    has 
rolled. 


Yet  lives  the  lesson  of  that  day; 
And  from  its  twilight  cool  and  gray 
Comes  up  a  low,  sad  whisper,  "  Make 
The  truth  thine  own,  for  truth's  own 
sake. 

"  Why  wait  to  see  in  thy  brief  span 
Its  perfect  flower  and  fruit  in  man? 
No  saintly  touch  can  save ;  no  balm 
Of  healing  hath  the  martyr's  palm. 

"  Midst  soulless  forms,  and  false  pre 
tence 

Of  spiritual  pride  and  pampered 
sense, 

A  voice  saith,  'What  is  that  to  thee? 

Be  true  thyself,  and  follow  Me ! ' 

"  In  days  when  throne  and  altar  heard 
The  wanton's  wish,  the  bigot's  word, 
And  pomp  of  state  and  ritual  show 
Scarce  hid  the  loathsome  death  be 
low, — 

"  Midst  fawning  priests  and  courtiers 

foul, 

The  losel  swarm  of  crown  and  cowl, 
White-robed  walked  Frangois  Fene- 

lon, 
Stainless  as  Uriel  in  the  sun  f 

"  Yet  in  his  time  the  stake  blazed  red, 
The  poor  were  eaten  up  like  bread ; 
Men  knew  him  not :  his  garment's 

hem 
No  healing  virtue  had  for  them. 


198 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 


"  Alas  !  no  present  saint  we  find ; 
The  white  cymar  gleams  far  behind, 
Revealed  in  outline  vague,  sublime, 
Through  telescopic  mists  of  time! 

"Trust   not    in   man    with    passing 

breath, 

But  in  the  Lord,  old  Scripture  saith; 
The  truth  which  saves  thou  mayst  not 

blend 
With  false  professor,  faithless  friend. 

"  Search  thine  own  heart.  What  pain- 

eth  thee 

In  others  in  thyself  may  be; 
All  dust  is  frail,  all  flesh  is  weak; 
Be  thou  the  true  man  thou  dost  seek ! 

"Where  now  with  pain  thou  tread- 

est,  trod 

The  whitest  of  the  saints  of  God ! 
To  show  thee  where  their  feet  were 

set, 
The  light  which  led  them  shineth  yet. 

"The  footprints  of  the  life  divine, 
Which  marked  their  path,  remain  in 

thine ; 
And    that   great   Life,   transfused   in 

theirs, 
Awaits     thy     faith,     thy     love,    thy 

prayers !  " 

A  lesson  which  I  well  may  heed, 
A  word  of  fitness  to  my  need; 
So  from  that  twilight  cool  and  gray 
Still  saith  a  voice,  or  seems  to  say. 


V/e     rose,     and     slowly      homeward 
turned, 


While    down    the    west    the     sunset 

burned ; 

And,  in  its  light,  hill,  wood,  and  tide, 
And  human  forms  seemed  glorified. 

The      village      homes      transfigured 

stood, 
And     purple     bluffs,    whose    belting 

wood 

Across  the  waters  leaned  to  hold 
The  yellow  leaves  like  lamps  of  gold. 

Then  spake  my  friend:  "Thy  words 

are  true; 

Forever  old,  forever  new, 
These   home-seen   splendors   are   the 

same 
Which  over  Eden's  sunsets  came. 


"  To  these  bowed  heavens  let  wood 

and  hill 

Lift  voiceless  praise  and  anthem  still ; 
Fall,  warm  with  blessing,  over  thenij 
Light  of  the  New  Jerusalem ! 


"  Flow  on,  sweet  river,  like  the  stream 
Of  John's  Apocalyptic  dream ! 
This  mapled  ridge  shall  Horeb  be, 
Yon  green-banked  lake  our  Galilee! 


"  Henceforth  my  heart  shall  sigh  no 

more 

For  olden  time  and  holier  shore; 
God's   love  and    blessing,    then    and 

there, 
Are  now  and  here  and  everywhere." 


QUESTIONS  OF  LIFE. 


19? 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


QUESTIONS  OF  LIFE. 

And  the  angel  that  was  sent  unto  me,  whose 
name  was  Uriel,  gave  me  an  answer,  and  said, 

"Thy  heart  hath  gone  too  far  in  this  world, 
and  thinkest  thou  to  comprehend  the  way  of 
the  Most  High?" 

Then  said  I,  "Yea,  my  Lord.'' 

Then  said  he  unto  me,  "Go  thy  way,  weigh 
me  the  weight  of  the  fire,  or  measure  me  the 
blast  of  the  wind,  or  call  me  again  the  day 
that  is  past."— 2  Esdras,  chap.  iv. 

A  BENDING  staff  I  would  not  break, 
A  feeble  faith  I  would  not  shake, 
Nor  even  rashly  pluck  away 
The  error  which  some  truth  may  stay, 
Whose  loss  might  leave  the  soul  with 
out 
A  shield  against  the  shafts  of  doubt. 


And  yet,  at  times,  when  over  all 
A  darker  mystery  seems  to  fall, 
(May  God  forgive  the  child  of  dust, 
Who    seeks   to    know,    where    Faith 

should  trust!} 

I  raise  the  questions,  old  and  dark, 
Of  Uzdom's  tempted  patriarch, 
And,  speech-confounded,  build  again 
The  baffled  tower  of  Shinar's  plain. 

I  am:  how  little  more  I  know! 
Whence  came  I?  Whither  do  I  go? 
A  centred  self,  which  feels  and  is; 
A  cry  between  the  silences ; 
A  shadow-birth  of  clouds  at  strife 
With  sunshine  on  the  hills  of  life; 
A  shaft  from  Nature's  quiver  cast 
Into  the  Future  from  the  Past; 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  shroud, 
A  meteor's  flight  from  cloud  to  cloud. 

Thorough  the  vastness,  arching  all, 
I  see  the  great  stars  rise  and  fall, 
The  rounding  seasons  come  and  go, 
The  tided  oceans  ebb  and  flow; 


The  tokens  of  a  central  force, 
Whose    circles,    in     their     widening 

course, 

O'erlap  and  move  the  universe; 
The    workings    of    the    law    whence 

springs 

The  rhythmic  harmony  of  things, 
Which  shapes  in  earth  the  darkling 

spar, 

And  orbs  in  heaven  the  morning  star. 
Of  all  I  see,  in  earth  and  sky, — 
Star,  flower,  beast,  bird, — what  part 

have  I? 

This  conscious  life, — is  it  the  same 
Which  thrills  the  universal  frame, 
Whereby  the  caverned  crystal  shoots, 
And    mounts    the    sap    from   forest 

roots, 

Whereby  the  exiled  wood-bird  tells 
When  Spring  makes  green  her  native 

dells? 

How  feels  the  stone  the  pang  of  birth, 
Which    brings    its     sparkling     prism 

forth? 

The  forest-tree  the  throb  which  gives 
The  life-blood  to  its  new-born  leaves  ? 
Do  bird  and  blossom  feel,  like  me, 
Life's  many-folded  mystery,— 
The  wonder  which  it  is  TO  BE? 
Or  stand  I  severed  and  distinct, 
From  Nature's  chain  of  life  unlinked? 
Allied  to  all,  yet  not  the  less 
Prisoned  in  separate  consciousness, 
Alone  o'erburdened  with  a  sense 
Of  life,  and  cause,  and  consequence? 

In  vain  to  me  the  Sphinx  propounds 
The  riddle  of  her  sights  and  sounds; 
Back  still  the  vaulted  mystery  gives 
The  echoed  question  it  receives. 
What  sings  the  brook?    What  oracle 
Is  in  the  pine-tree's  organ  swell? 
What  may  the  wind's  low  burden  be? 
The  meaning  of  the  moaning  sea  ? 
The   hieroglyphics  of  the  stars? 
Or  clouded  sunset's  crimson  bars? 


200 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


I  vainly  ask,  for  mocks  my  skill 
The  trick  of  Nature's  ciphe 


cipher   still. 


I  turn  from  Nature  unto  men, 

I  ask  the  stylus  and  the  pen; 

What  sang  the  bards  of  old?     What 

meant 

The  prophets  of  the  Orient? 
The  rolls  of  buried  Egypt,  hid 
In  painted  tomb  and  pyramid? 
What  mean  Idumea's  arrowy  lines, 
Or  dusk  Elora's  monstrous  signs? 
How  speaks  the   primal    thought    of 

man 

From  the  grim  carvings  of  Copan? 
Where  rests  the  secret?     Where  the 

keys 

Of  the  old  death-bolted  mysteries? 
Alas !  the  dead  retain  their  trust ; 
Dust  hath  no  answer  from  the  dust. 


The  great  enigma  still  unguessed, 
Unanswered  the  eternal  quest; 
I  gather  up  the  scattered  rays 
Of  wisdom  in  the  early  days, 
Faint   gleams    and   broken,   like    the 

light 

Of  meteors  in  a  northern  night, 
Betraying  to  the  darkling  earth 
The  unseen  sun  which  gave  them 

birth ; 

I  listen  to  the  sibyl's  chant, 
The  voice  of  priest  and  hierophant; 
I  know  what  Indian  Kreeshna  saith, 
And  what  of  life  and  what  of  death 
The  demon  taught  to  Socrates; 
And  what,  beneath  his  garden-trees 
Slow  pacing,  with  a  dream-like  tread, 
The  solemn-thoughted   Plato   said; 
Nor  lack  I  tokens,  great  or  small, 
Of  God's  clear  light  in  each  and  all, 
While  holding  with  more  dear  regard 
The  scroll  of  Hebrew  seer  and  bard, 
The  starry  pages  promise-lit 
With   Christ's   Evangel  over-writ, 
Thy  miracle  of  life  and  death, 
O  holy  one  of  Nazareth ! 


On  Aztec  ruins,  gray  and  lone, 
The  circling  serpent  coils  in  stone, — 


Type  of  the  endless  and  unknown; 
Whereof  we  seek  the  clew  to  find, 
With  groping  fingers  of  the  blind! 
Forever  sought,  and  never  found, 
We  trace  that  serpent-symbol  round 
Our  resting-place,  our  starting  bound ! 
O  thriftlessness  of  dream  and  guess  ! 

0  wisdom  which  is  foolishness ! 
Why  idly  seek  from  outward  things 
The  answer  inward  silence  brings; 
Why     stretch     beyond     our     proper 

sphere 

And  age,  for  that  which  lies  so  near? 
Why  climb  the  far-off  hills  with  pain, 
A  nearer  view  of  heaven  to  gain? 
In  lowliest  depths  of  bosky  dells 
The  hermit  Contemplation  dwells. 
A  fountain's  pine-hung  slope  his  seat, 
And  lotus-twined  his  silent  feet, 
Whence,       piercing       heaven,       with 

screened  sight, 
He    sees    at    noon    the    stars,   whose 

light 
Shall  glorify  the  coming  night. 

Here  let  me  pause,  my  quest  forego ; 
Enough  for  me  to  feel  and  know 
That  he  in  whom  the  cause  and  end, 
The     past     and     future,     meet     and 

blend,— 

Who,   girt  with  his  immensities, 
Our  vast  and  star-hung  system  sees, 
Small  as  the  clustered   Pleiades, — 
Moves  not  alone  the  heavenly  quires, 
But    waves    the    spring-time's   grassy 

spires, 

Guards  not  archangel  feet  alone, 
But    deigns    to    guide   and    keep    my 

own; 

Speaks  not  alone  the  words  of  fate 
Which    worlds    destroy,    and    worlds 

create, 

But  whispers  in  my  spirit's   ear, 
In  tones  of  love,  or  warning  fear, 
A  language  none  beside  may  hear. 

To  Him,  from  wanderings  long  and 
wild, 

1  come,  an  over-wearied  child, 

In  cool  and  shade  his  peace  to  find, 
Like   dew-fall   settling   on   my   mind. 
Assured  that  all  I  know  is  best, 
And  humbly  trusting  for  the  rest, 


THE   PRISONERS   OF   NAPLES. 


201 


I     turn     from     Fancy's     cloud-built 

scheme, 
Dark  creed,    and    mournful    eastern 

dream 

Of  power,  impersonal  and  cold, 
Controlling   all,    itself   controlled, 
Maker  and  slave  of  iron  laws, 
Alike  the  subject  and  the  cause; 
From  vain  philosophies,  that  try 
The  sevenfold  gates  of  mystery, 
And,  baffled  ever,  babble  still, 
Word-prodigal  of  fate  and  will; 
From  Nature,  and  her  mockery,  Art, 
And  book  and  speech  of  men  apart, 
To  the  still  witness  in  my  heart ; 
With  reverence  waiting  to  behold 
His  Avatar  of  love  untold, 
The  Eternal  Beauty  new  and  old ! 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  NAPLES. 

I  HAVE  been  thinking  of  the  victims 

bound 

In  Naples,  dying  for  the  lack  of  air 
And   sunshine,    in   their   close,    damp 

cells  of  pain, 
Where  hope  is  not,  and  innocence  in 

vain 
Appeals  against  the  torture  and  the 

chain ! 
Unfortunates !  whose  crime  it  was  to 

share 
Our  common  love  of  freedom,  and  to 

dare, 

In   its    behalf,    Rome's   harlot   triple- 
crowned, 

And  her  base  pander,  the  most  hate 
ful  thing 
Who    upon    Christian    or    on    Pagan 

ground 
Makes  vile  the  old  heroic  name  of 

king. 
O  God  most  merciful!     Father  just 

and  kind ! 
Whom  man  hath  bound  let  thy  right 

hand  unbind. 

Or,  if  thy  purposes  of  good  behind 
Their  ills  lie  hidden,  let  the  sufferers 

find 


Strong  consolation ;  leave  them  not 
to  doubt 

Thy  providential  care,  nor  yet  with 
out 

The  hope  which  all  thy  attributes  in 
spire, 

That  not  in  vain  the  martyr's  robe 
of  fire 

Is  worn,  nor  the  sad  prisoner's  fret 
ting  chain ; 

Since  all  who  suffer  for  thy  truth 
send  forth, 

Electrical,  with  every  throb  of  pain, 

Unquenchable  sparks,  thy  own  bap 
tismal  rain 

Of  fire  and  spirit  over  all  the  earth, 

Making  the  dead  in  slavery  live  again. 

Let  this  great  hope  be  with  them,  as 
they  lie 

Shut  from  the  light,  the  greenness, 
and  the  sky, — 

From  the  cool  waters  and  the  pleas 
ant  breeze, 

The  smell  of  flowers,  and  shade  of 
summer  trees; 

Bound  with  the  felon  lepers,  whom 
disease 

And  sins  abhorred  make  loathsome; 
let  them  share 

Pellico's  faith,  Foresti's  strength  to 
bear 

Years  of  unutterable  torment,  stern 
and  still, 

As  the  chained  Titan  victor  through 
his  will! 

Comfort  them  with  thy  future;  let 
them  see 

The  day-dawn  of  Italian  liberty; 

For  that,  with  all  good  things,  is  hid 
with  Thee, 

And,  perfect  in  thy  thought,  awaits 
its  time  to  be! 


I,   who  have  spoken  for  freedom  at 

the  cost 
Of  some  weak  friendships,  or  some 

paltry  prize 
Of  name  or  place,  and  more  than  I 

have  lost 


202 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Have  gained  in  wider  reach  of  sym 
pathies, 

And  free  communion  with  the  good 
and  wise, — • 

May  God  forbid  that  I  should  ever 
boast 

Such  easy  self-denial,  or  repine 

That  the  strong  pulse  of  health  no 
more  is  mine; 

That,  overworn  at  noonday,  I  must 
yield 

To  other  hands  the  gleaning  of  the 
field,— 

A  tired  on-looker  through  the  day's 
decline. 

For  blest  beyond  deserving  still,  and 
knowing 

That  kindly  Providence  its  care  is 
showing 

In  the  withdrawal  as  in  the  bestow 
ing, 

Scarcely  I  dare  for  more  or  less  to 
pray. 

Beautiful  yet  for  me  this  autumn  day 

Melts  on  its  sunset  hills;  and,  far 
away, 

For  me  the  Ocean  lifts  its  solemn 
psalm, 

To  me  the  pine- woods  whisper;  and 
for  me 

Yon  river,  winding  through  its  vales 
of  calm, 

By  greenest  banks,  with  asters  pur 
ple-starred, 

And  gentian  bloom  and  golden-rod 
made  gay, 

Flows  down  in  silent  gladness  to  the 
sea, 

Like  a  pure  spirit  to  its  great  reward  ! 


Nor   lack    I    friends,    long-tried   and 

near  and  dear, 
Whose   love    is    round   me   like    this 

atmosphere, 
Warm,  soft,  and  golden.     For   such 

gifts  to  me 
What  shall  I  render,  O  my  God,  to 

thee? 
Let  me  not  dwell   upon  my   lighter 

share 
Of  pain  and  ill  that  human  life  must 

bear; 


Save  me  from  selfish  pining;  let  my 

heart, 

Drawn  from  itself  in  sympathy,  for 
get 

The  bitter  longings  of  a  vain  regret, 
The    anguish    of     its     own    peculiar 

smart. 

Remembering  others,   as   I   have  to 
day, 
In  their  great  sorrows,  let  me  live  al- 

way 

Not  for  myself  alone,  but  have  a  part, 
Such  as  a  frail  and  erring  spirit  may, 
In  love  which  is  of  Thee,  and  which 
indeed  Thou  art! 


MOLOCH    IN    STATE    STREET. 

THE  moon  has  set :    while    yet    the 
dawn 

Breaks  cold  and  gray, 
Between  the  midnight  and  the  morn 

Bear  off  your  prey! 

On,    swift    and    still! — the    conscious 
street 

Is  panged  and  stirred; 
Tread  light !— that  fall  of  serried  feet 

The  dead  have  heard! 

The  first  drawn  blood  of  Freedom's 

veins 

Gushed  where  ye  tread; 
Lo!    through    the   dusk   the   martyr- 
stains 
Blush  darkly  red! 

Beneath  the  slowly  waning  stars 

And  whitening  day, 
What  stern  and  awful  presence  bars 

That  sacred  way? 

What  faces  frown  upon  ye,  dark 

With  shame  and  pain? 
Come  these  from  Plymouth's  Pilgrim 
bark? 

Is  that  young  Vane? 

Who,   dimly  beckoning,   speed  ye  on 

With  mocking  cheer? 
Lo!  spectral  Andros,  Hutchinson, 

And  Gage  are  here! 


THE  PEACE  OF  EUROPE. 


203 


For  ready  mart  or  favoring  blast 

Through  Moloch's  fire 
Flesh  of  his  flesh,  unsparing,  passed 

The  Tyrian  sire. 

Ye  make  that  ancient  sacrifice 

Of  Man  to  Gain, 

Your   traffic   thrives,  where  Freedom 
dies, 

Beneath  the  chain. 

Ye  sow  to-day,  your  harvest,  scorn 

And  hate,  is  near ; 
How   think  ye    freemen,    mountain- 
born, 

The  tale  will  hear? 

Thank  God !  our  mother  State  can  yet 

Her  fame  retrieve; 
To  you  and  to  your  children  let 

The  scandal  cleave. 

Chain  Hall    and    Pulpit,  Court    and 
Press, 

Make  gods  of  gold; 
Let  honor,  truth,  and  manliness 

Like  wares  be  sold. 

Your  hoards  are  great,  your  walls  are 
strong, 

But  God  is  just; 
The  gilded  chambers  built  by  wrong 

Invite  the  rust. 

What!   know   ye   not   the  gains    of 
Crime 

Are  dust  and  dross ; 
Its  ventures  on  the  waves  of  time 

Foredoomed  to  loss! 

And  still  the  Pilgrim  State  remains 

What  she  hath  been; 
Her  inland  hills,  her  seaward  plains, 

Still  nurture  men ! 


Nor  wholly  lost  the  fallen  mart,— 

Her  olden  blood 

Through  many  a  free  and  generous 
heart 

Still  pours  its  flood. 


That  brave  old  blood,  quick-flowing 

yet, 

Shall  know  no  check, 
Till  a  free  people's  foot  is  set 
On  Slavery's  neck. 

iven  new,  the  peel  of  bell  and  gun, 

And  hills  aflame, 
fell  of  the  first  great  triumph  won 

In  Freedom's  name. 

The  long  night  dies  :  the  welcome  gray 

Of  dawn  we  see; 
peed  up  the  heavens  thy  perfect  day, 

God  of  the  free! 
1851. 


THE  PEACE  OF  EUROPE. 
1852. 


GREAT    peace    in 


reigns 
From     Tiber's 


hills 


Europe !     Order 
to     Danube's 


plains !  " 

So  say  her  kings  and  priests;  so  say 
The  lying  prophets  of  our  day. 

Go  lay  to  earth  a  listening  ear; 
The    tramp    of    measured     marches 

hear, — 

The  rolling  of  the  cannon's  wheel, 
The  shotted  musket's  murderous  peal, 
The  night  alarm,  the  sentry's  call, 
The  quick-eared  spy  in  hut  and  hall! 
From  Polar  sea  and  tropic  fen 
The  dying-groans  of  exiled  men! 
The  bolted  cell,  the  galley's  chains, 
The  scaffold  smoking  with  its  stains! 
Order, — the  hush  of  brooding  slaves! 
Peace, — in    the    dungeon-vaults     and 

graves ! 

O  Fisher !  of  the  world-wide  net, 
With  meshes  in  all  waters  set, 
Whose  fabled  keys  of  heaven  and  hell 
Bolt  hard  the  patriot's  prison-cell, 
And  open  wide  the  banquet-hall, 
Where  kings  and  priests  hold  carni 
val! 
Weak  vassal  tricked  in  royal  guise, 


204 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Boy  Kaiser  with  thy  lip  of  lies ; 
Base  gambler  for  Napoleon's  crown 
Barnacle  on  his  dead  renown ! 
Thou,  Bourbon  Neapolitan, 
Crowned  scandal,  loathed  of  God  and 

man; 

And  thpu,  fell  Spider  of  the  North ! 
Stretching  thy  giant  fingers  forth, 
Within  whose  web  the  freedom  dies 
Of  nations  eaten  up  like  flies ! 
Speak,  Prince  and  Kaiser,  Priest  and 

Czar! 
If  this  be  Peace,  pray  what  is  War: 

White  Angel  of  the  Lord !  unmeet 
That  soil  accursed  for  thy  pure  feet. 
Never  in  Slavery's  desert  flows 
The  fountain  of  thy  charmed  repose; 
No  tyrant's  hand  thy  chaplet  weaves 
Of  lilies  and  of  olive-leaves; 
Not  with  the  wicked  shalt  thou  dwell, 
Thus  saith  the  Eternal  Oracle; 
Thy  home  is  with  the  pure  and  free ! 
Stern  herald  of  thy  better  day, 
Before  thee,  to  prepare  thy  way,- 
The  Baptist  Shade  of  Liberty, 
Gray,  scarred  and  hairy-robed,  must 

press 

With  bleeding  feet  the  wilderness ! 
O  that  its  voice  might  pierce  the  ear 
Of  princes,  trembling  while  they  hear 
A  cry  as  of  the  Hebrew  seer : 
Repent !  God's  kingdom  draweth  near  ! 


WORDSWORTH. 

WRITTEN  ON  A  BLANK  LEAF  OF  HIS 
MEMOIRS. 

DEAR    friends,    who    read   the    world 
aright, 

And  in  its  common  forms  discern 
A  beauty  and  a  harmony 

The  many  never  learn ! 

Kindred  in  soul  of  him  who  found 
In  simple  flower  and  leaf  and  stone 

The  impulse  of  the  sweetest  lays 
Our  Saxon  tongue  has  known,— 


Accept  this  record  of  a  life 
As   sweet   and  pure,    as   calm  and 
good, 

As  a  long  day  of  blandest  June 
In  green  field  and  in  wood. 

How  welcome  to  our  ears,  long 
pained 

By  strife  of  sect  and  party  noise, 
The  brook-like  murmur  of  his   song 

Of  nature's  simple  joys ! 

The  violet  by  its  mossy  stone, 
The  primrose  by  the  river's  brim, 

And  chance-sown  daffodil,  have  found 
Immortal  life  through  him. 

The  sunrise  on  his  breezy  lake, 
The  rosy  tints  his  sunset  brought, 

WTorld-seen,    are    gladdening   all    the 

vales 
And  mountain-peaks  of  thought. 

Art  builds  on  sand;  the  works  of 
pride 

And  human  passion  change  and  fall ; 
But  that  which  shares  the  life  of  God 

With  him  surviveth  all. 


TO  . 

LINES  WRITTEN  AFTER  A  SUMMER  DAY^S 
EXCURSION. 

FAIR  Nature's  priestesses!  to  whom, 
In  hieroglyph  of  bud  and  bloom, 

Her  mysteries  are  told; 
Who,  wise  in  lore  of  wood  and  mead, 
The  seasons'  pictured  scrolls  can  read, 

In  lessons  manifold! 

Thanks  for  the  courtesy,  and  gay 
Good-humor,  which  on  Washing  Day 

Our  ill-timed  visit  bore; 
Thanks  for  your  graceful  oars,  which 

broke 
The  morning  dreams  of  Artichoke, 

Along  his  wooded  shore! 

Varied  as  varying  Nature's  ways, 
Sprites  of  the  river,   woodland  fays, 
Or  mountain  nymphs,  ye  seem ; 


IN  PEACE. 


205 


Free-limbed  Dianas  on  the  green, 
Loch  Katrine's  Ellen,  or  Undine, 
Upon  your  favorite  stream. 

The  forms  of  which  the  poets  told, 
The  fair  benignities  of  old, 

Were  doubtless  such  as  you ; 
What  more  than  Artichoke  the  rill 
Of  Helicon?     Than  Pipe-stave  hill 

Arcadia's  mountain  view? 

No  sweeter  bowers  the  bee  delayed, 
In  wild  Hymettus'  scented  shade, 

Than  those  you  dwell  among; 
Snow-flowered  azalias,  intertwined 
With  roses,  over  banks  inclined 

With   trembling   harebells   hung! 

A  charmed  life  unknown  to  death, 
Immortal  freshness  Nature  hath; 

Her  fabled  fount  and  glen 
Are  now  and  here:  Dodona's  shrine 
Still     murmurs     in    the    wind-swept 
pine, — 

All  is  that  e'er  hath  been. 

The    Beauty   which     old     Greece    or 

Rome 
Sung,  painted,  wrought,  lies  close  at 

home; 

We  need  but  eye  and  ear 
In  all  our  daily  walks  to  trace 
The  outlines  of  incarnate  grace, 
The  hymns  of  gods  to  hear! 


IN  PEACE. 

A  TRACK  of  moonlight  on  a  quiet  lake, 
Whose  small   waves  on    a    silver- 
sanded  shore 

Whisper  of  peace,  and  with  the  low 
winds  make 

Such   harmonies   as   keep   the  woods 
awake, 

And  listening  all  night  long  for  their 

sweet  sake 

A  green-waved   slope  of  meadow, 
hovered  o'er 


By    angel-troops    of    lilies,    swaying 

light 
On  viewless  stems,  with  folded  wings 

of  white; 

A   slumberous    stretch   of   mountain- 
land,  far  seen 
Where  the  low  westering   day,   with 

gold  and  green, 

Purple  and  amber,  softly  blended,  fills 
The  wooded  vales,  and  melts  among 

the  hills; 
A  vine-fringed  river,   winding  to  its 

rest 
On  the  calm  bosom  of  a  stormless 

sea, 

Bearing  alike  upon  its  placid  breast, 
With    earthly    flowers    and    heavenly 

stars  impressed, 

The  hues  of  time  and  of  eternity: 
Such    are     the    pictures    which    the 

thought  of  thee, 
O   friend,   awakeneth, — charming  the 

keen  pain 
Of  thy  departure,  and  our  sense  of 

loss 
Requiting    with    the    fulness    of    thy 

gain. 

Lo!   on   the   quiet    grave   thy   life- 
borne  cross, 
Dropped   only   at   its    side,   methinks 

doth  shine, 

Of  thy  beatitude  the  radiant  sign! 
No  sob  of  grief,  no  wild  lament  be 

there, 
To  break  the  Sabbath  of  the  holy 

air; 

But,  in  their  stead,  the  silent-breath 
ing  prayer 
Of  hearts  still  waiting  for  a  rest  like 

thine. 
O    spirit    redeemed !     Forgive    us,    if 

henceforth, 
With   sweet  and  pure  similitudes  of 

earth, 
We     keep     thy    pleasant     memory 

freshly  green, 

Of  love's  inheritance  a  priceless  part, 
Which    Fancy's    self,    in    reverent 

awe,  is  seen 
To  paint,   forgetful  of  the   tricks   of 

art, 
With  pencil  dipped  alone  in  colors 

of  the  heart. 


206 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


BENEDICITE. 

GOD'S  love  and  peace  be  with  thee, 

where 

Soe'er  this  soft  autumnal  air 
Lifts  the  dark  tresses  of  thy  hair ! 

Whether     through     city     casements 

comes 

Its  kiss  to  thee,  in  crowded  rooms, 
Or,  out  among  the  woodland  blooms, 

It  freshens  o'er  thy  thoughtful  face, 
Imparting,  in  its  glad  embrace, 
Beauty  to  beauty,  grace  to  grace! 

Fair  Nature's  book  together  read, 
The  old  wood-paths  that   knew  our 

tread, 
The  maple  shadows  overhead, — 


The  hills  we  climbed,  the  river  seen 
By  gleams  along  its  deep  ravine, — 
All  keep  thy  memory  fresh  and  green. 


Where'er  I  look,  where'er  I  stray, 
Thy  thought   goes   with   me   on  my 

way, 

And  hence  the  prayer  I  breathe  to 
day; 

O'er   lapse   of   time   and   change   of 

scene, 

The  weary  waste  which  lies  between 
Thyself  and  me,  my  heart  I  lean. 

Thou  lack'st  not    Friendship's    spell- 
word,  nor 

The  half-unconscious  power  to  draw 
All  hearts  to  thine  by  Love's  sweet 
law. 

With  these  good  gifts  of  God  is  cast 
Thy  lot,  and  many  a  charm  thou  hast 
To  hold  the  blessed  angels  fast 

If,  then,  a  fervent  wish  for  thee 
The  gracious  heavens  will  heed  from 

me, 
What  should,  dear  heart,  its  burden 

be? 

The  sighing  of  a  shaken  reed, — 


What  can  I  more  than  meekly  plead 
The  greatness  of  our  common  need? 

God's    love,— unchanging,    pure,    and 

true, — 

The  Paraclete  white-shining  through 
His  peace,— the  fall  of  Hermon's  dew  ! 

With   such  a  prayer,  on  this   sweet 

day, 

As  thou  mayst  hear  and  I  may  say, 
I  greet  thee,  dearest,  far  away! 


PICTURES, 
i. 

LIGHT,  warmth,  and  sprouting  green 
ness,  and  o'er  all 
Blue,  stainless,    steel-bright    ether, 

raining  down 
Tranquillity  upon  the  deep-hushed 

town, 
The  freshening  meadows,  and  the 

hillsides  brown; 
Voice  of  the  west-wind  from  the 

hills  of  pine, 

And  the  brimmed  river  from  its  dis 
tant  fall, 

Low  hum  of  bees,  and  joyous  inter 
lude 

Of    bird-songs    in     the     streamlet- 
skirting  wood, — 
Heralds   and   prophecies   ot  sound 

and  sight, 
Blessed  forerunners  of  the  warmth 

and  light, 
Attendant   angels   to    the    house    of 

prayer, 
With  reverent   footsteps  keeping 

pace  with  mine, — 
Once  more,  through  God's  great  love, 

with  you  I  share 
A   morn   of   resurrection   sweet   and 

fair 

As  that  which  saw,  of  old,  in  Pal 
estine, 

Immortal    Love    uprising    in    fresh 
bloom 


DERNE. 


207 


From  the   dark  night  and  winter  of 

the  tomb! 
5th  mo.,  2d,  1852. 


ir. 

White  with  its  sun-bleached  dust,  the 

pathway  v/inds 
Before  me;  dust  is  on  the  shrunken 

grass, 
And   on   the   trees   beneath   whose 

boughs  I  pass; 
Frail  screen  against  the  Hunter  of 

the  sky, 
Who,  glaring  on  me  with  his  lidless 

eye, 

While    mounting    with    his    dog- 
star  high  and  higher 
Ambushed    in    light    intolerable,    un 
binds 
The     burnished     quiver     of     his 

shafts  of  fire 
Between  me  and  the  hot  fields  of 

his  South 

A  tremulous  glow,  as  from  a  fur 
nace-mouth, 
Glimmers    and    swims    before    my 

dazzled  sight, 
As  if  the  burning  arrows  of  his 

ire 
Broke  as   they  fell,  and  shattered 

into  light; 
Yet  on  my  cheek  I  feel  the  western 

wind, 
And  hear  it  telling  to  the  orchard 

trees, 

And  to   the   faint  and   flower-for 
saken  bees, 
Tales  of  fair  meadows,  green  with 

constant  streams, 
And  mountains  rising  blue  and  cool 

behind, 
Where   in   moist    dells    the   purple 

orchis  gleams, 
And  starred  with  white  the  virgin's 

bower  is  twined. 
So    the    overwearied    pilgrim,    as    he 

fares 

Along  life's  summer  waste,  at  times 
is  fanned, 


Even  at  noontide,  by  the  cool,  sweet 

airs 

Of  a  serener  and  a  holier  land, 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  as  the  dew- 
fall  bland. 

Breath  of  the    blessed    Heaven    for 
which  we  pray, 

Blow  from  the  eternal  hills! — make 
glad  our  earthly  way ! 

8th  mo.,  1852. 


DERNE. 

NIGHT  on  the  city  of  the  Moon 
On    mosque    and    tomb,    and    white- 
walled  shore, 
On    sea-waves,    to    whose    ceaseless 

knock 

The  narrow  harbor-gates  unlock, 
On  corsair's  galley,  carack  tall, 
And  plundered  Christian  caraval ! 
The  sounds  of  Moslem  life  are  still; 
No   mule-bell  tinkles   down  the  hill; 
Stretched  in  the  broad  court  of  the 

khan, 

The  dusty  Bornou  caravan 
Lies  heaped    in    slumber,  beast  and 

man; 

The  Sheik  is  dreaming  in  his  tent 
His  noisy  Arab  tongue  o'erspent; 
The    kiosk's    glimmering    lights    are 

gone, 

The  merchant  with  his  wares  with 
drawn  ; 

Rough  pillowed  on  some  pirate  breast, 
The  dancing-girl  has  sunk  to  rest; 
And,  save  where  measured  footsteps 

fall 

Along  the  Bashaw's  guarded  wall, 
Or  where,  like  some  bad  dream,  the 

Jew 

Creeps  stealthily  his  quarter  through, 
Or  counts  with  fear  his  golden  heaps, 
The  City  of  the  Corsair  sleeps ! 

But  where  yon  prison  long  and  low 
Stands   black   against  the  pale   star- 
glow, 

Chafed    by   the     ceaseless    wash     of 
waves, 


208 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


There  watch  and  pine  the  Christian 

slaves ; — 
Rough-bearded    men,    whose     far-off 

wives 
Wear    out    with    grief    their    lonely 

lives ; 

And  youth,  still  flashing  from  his  eyes 
The  clear  blue  of  New  England  skies, 
A  treasured  lock  of  whose  soft  hair 
Now  wakes  some  sorrowing  mother's 

prayer ; 

Or,  worn  upon  some  maiden  breast, 
Stirs  with  the  loving  heart's  unrest! 

A  bitter  cup  each  life  must  drain, 
The  groaning  earth   is  cursed    with 

pain, 

And,  like  the  scroll  the  angel  bore 
The  shuddering  Hebrew  seer  before, 
O'erwrit  alike,  without,  within, 
With  all  the  woes  which  follow  sin; 
But,  bitterest  of  the  ills  beneath' 
Whose   load  man    totters    down    to 

death, 

Is  that  which  plucks  the  regal  crown 
Of  Freedom  from  his  forehead  down, 
And  snatches  from  his  powerless 

hand 

The  sceptred  sign  of  self-command, 
Effacing  with  the  chain  and  rod 
The  image  and  the  seal  of  God; 
Till  from  his  nature,  day  by  day, 
The  manly  virtues  fall  away, 
And  leave  him  naked,  blind,  and  mute, 
The  godlike  merging  in  the  brute! 

Why  mourn  the  quiet  ones  who  die 
Beneath  affection's  tender  eye, 
Unto  their  household  and  their  kin 
Like  ripened    corn-sheaves    gathered 

in? 

O  weeper,  from  that  tranquil  sod, 
That  holy  harvest-home  of  God, 
Turn  to  the  quick  and  suffering,— 

shed 

Thy  tears  upon  the  living  dead! 
Thank   God   above    thy    dear    ones' 

graves, 


They  sleep  with  Him, — they  are  not 
slaves. 

What  dark  mass,  down  the  mountain 
sides 

Swift-pouring,  like  a  stream  di 
vides  ? — 

A  long,  loose,  straggling  caravan, 

Camel  and  horse  and  armed  man. 

The  moon's  low  crescent,  glimmering 
o'er 

Its  grave  of  waters  to  the  shore, 

Lights  up  that  mountain  cavalcade, 

And  glints  from  gun  and  spear  and 
blade 

Near  and  more  near ! — now  o'er  them 
falls 

The  shadow  of  the  city  walls. 

Hark  to  the  sentry's  challenge, 
drowned 

In  the  fierce  trumpet's  charging 
sound ! — 

The  rush  of  men,  the  musket's  peal, 

The  short,  sharp  clang  of  meeting 
steel ! 

Vain,    Moslem,    vain     thy     lifeblood 

poured 

So  freely  on  thy  foeman's  sword ! 
Not  to  the  swift  nor  to  the  strong 
The  battles  of  the  right  belong; 
For    he    who    strikes    for    Freedom 

wears 

The  armor  of  the  captive's  prayers, 
And  Nature  proffers  to  his  cause 
The  strength  of  her  eternal  laws; 
While  he  whose  arm  essays  to  bind 
And   herd   with   common   brutes   his 

kind 

Strives  evermore  at  fearful  odds 
With  Nature  and  the  jealous  gods, 
And  dares  the  dread  recoil  which  late 
Or  soon  their  right  shall  vindicate. 

'T  is  done, — the  horned  crescent  falls ! 
The  star-flag  flouts  the  broken  walls ! 
Joy  to  the  captive  husband!  joy 
To   thy  sick  heart,   O  brown-locked 

boy! 

In  sullen  wrath  the  conquered  Moor 
Wide  open  flings  your  dungeon-door, 
And  leaves  ye  free  from  cell  and 

chain, 


INVOCATION. 


209 


The  owners  of  yourselves  again. 
Dark  as   his   allies    desert-born, 
Soiled    with    the    battle's    stain,    and 

worn 

With  the  long  marches  of  his  band 
Through,  hottest  wastes  of  rock  and 

sand, — 

Scorched   by   the    sun   and    furnace- 
breath 

Of  the  red  desert's  wind  of  death, 
With    welcome   words    and    grasping 

hands, 
The  victor  and  deliverer  stands! 


The  tale  is  one  of  distant  skies ; 
The  dust  of  half  a  century  lies 
Upon  it;  yet  its  hero's  name 
Still  lingers  on  the  lips  of  Fame. 
Men    speak   the   praise   of   him   who 

gave 

Deliverance  to  the  Moorman's  slave, 
Yet  dared  to  brand  with  shame  and 

crime 

The  heroes  of  our  land  and  time, — 
The  self-forgetful  ones,  who  stake 
Home,  name,  and  life  for  Freedom's 

sake. 

God  mend  his  heart  who  cannot  feel 
The  impulse  of  a  holy  zeal, 
And  sees  not,  with  his  sordid  eyes, 
The  beauty  of  self-sacrifice ! 
Though  in  the  sacred  place  he  stands, 
Uplifting   consecrated   hands, 
Unworthy  are  his  lips  to  tell 
Of  Jesus'   martyr-miracle, 
Or  name  aright  that  dread  embrace 
Of  suffering  for  a  fallen  race! 


ASTR^EA. 

"Jove  means  to  settle 
Astrsea  in  her  seat  again, 
And  let  down  from  his  golden  chain 
An  age  of  better  metal." 

BEN  JONSON,  1615. 

O  POET  rare  and  old! 

Thy  words  are  prophecies; 
Forward  the  age  of  gold, 

The  new  Saturnian  lies. 


The  universal  prayer 
And  hope  are  not  in  vain; 

Rise,  brothers !  and  prepare 
The  way  for  Saturn's  reign. 

Perish  shall  all  which  takes 
From  labor's  board  and  can; 

Perish  shall  all  which  makes 
A  spaniel  of  the  man ! 

Free  from  its  bonds  the  mind, 
The  body  from  the  rod ; 

Broken  all  chains  that  bind 
The  image  of  our  God. 

Just  men  no  longer  pine 
Behind   their   prison-bars ; 

Through  the  rent  dungeon  shine 
The  free  sun  and  the  stars. 

Earth  own,  at  last,  untrod 
By  sect,  or  caste,  or  clan, 

The  fatherhood  of  God, 
The  brotherhood  of  man! 

Fraud  fail,  craft  perish,  forth 
The  money-changers  driven, 

And  God's  will  done  on  earth, 
As  now  in  heaven ! 


INVOCATION. 

THROUGH  thy  clear  spaces,  Lord,  of 

old, 
Formless    and   void   the    dead    earth 

rolled; 
Deaf   to    thy   heaven's    sweet   music, 

blind 
To    the    great    lights    which    o'er    it 

shined ; 
No    sound,   no   ray,   no   warmth,   no 

breath,— 
A  dumb  despair,  a  wandering  death. 

To  that  dark,  weltering  horror  came 
Thy  spirit,  like  a  subtle  flame, — 
A  breath  of  life  electrical, 
Awakening  and  transforming  all, 


210 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Till  beat  and  thrilled  in  every  part 
The  pulses  of  a  living  heart. 

Then  knew  their  bounds  the  land  and 

'        sea; 

Then  smiled  the  bloom  of  mead  and 

I        tree ; 

From  flower  to  moth,  from  beast  to 
man, 

The  quick  creative  impulse  ran; 

And  earth,  with  life  from  thee  re 
newed, 

Was  in  thy  holy  eyesight  good. 

As  lost  and  void,  as  dark  and  cold 
And  formless  as  that  earth  of  old, — 
A   wandering  waste   of    storm    and 

night, 
Midst  spheres  of  song  and  realms  of 

light,— 

A  blot  upon  thy  holy  sky, 
Untouched,  unwarned  of  thee,  am  I. 

O  thou  who  movest  on  the  deep 
Of  spirits,  wake  my  own  from  sleep ! 
Its  darkness  melt,  its  coldness  warm, 
The  lost  restore,  the  ill  transform, 
That  flower  and  fruit  henceforth  may 

be 
Its  grateful  offering,  worthy  thee. 


THE  CROSS. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  RICHARD  DILLING- 
HAM,  IN  THE  NASHVILLE  PENITEN 
TIARY. 

"  THE  cross,  if  rightly  borne,  shall  be 
No  burden,  but  support  to  thee";1 
So,  moved  of  old  time  for  our  sake, 
The  holy  monk  of  Kempen  spake. 

Thou  brave  and  true  one !  upon  whom 
Was  laid  the  cross  of  martyrdom, 
How    didst   thou,    in    thy    generous 

youth, 
Bear  witness  to  this  blessed  truth! 

1  Thomas  &  Kempis.    Imit.  Christ. 


Thy  cross  of  suffering  and  of  shame 
A   staff  within  thy  hands   became, 
In  paths  where  faith  alone  could  see 
The  Master's   steps  supporting  thee. 

Thine  was  the  seed-time;  God  alone 
Beholds  the  end  of  what  is  sown ; 
Beyond  our  vision,  weak  and  dim, 
The  harvest-time  is  hid  with  Him. 

Yet,  unforgotten  where  it  lies, 
That  seed  of  generous  sacrifice, 
Though   seeming  on  the  desert  cast, 
Shall  rise  with  bloom  and  fruit  at  last. 


EVA. 

DRY  the  tears  for  holy  Eva, 
With  the  blessed  angels  leave  her ; 
Of  the  form  so  soft  and  fair 
Give  to  earth  the  tender  care. 

For  the  golden  locks  of  Eva 
Let  the  sunny  south-land  give  her 
Flowery  pillow  of  repose,— 
Orange-bloom  and  budding  rose. 

In  the  better  home  of  Eva 
Let  the  shining  ones  receive  her, 
With  the  welcome-voiced  psalm, 
Harp  of  gold  and  waving  palm! 

All  is  light  and  peace  with  Eva; 
There  the  darkness  cometh  never; 
Tears  are  wiped,  and  fetters  fall, 
And  the  Lord  is  all  in  all. 

Weep  no  more  for  happy  Eva, 
Wrong  and  sin  no  more  shall  grieve 

her; 

Care  and  pain  and  weariness 
Lost  in  love  so  measureless. 

Gentle  Eva,  loving  Eva, 
Child  confessor,  true  believer, 
Listener  at  the  Master's  knee, 
"  Suffer  such  to  come  to  me." 


APRIL. 


211 


O,  for  faith  like  thine,  sweet  Eva, 
Lighting  all  the  solemn  river, 
And  the  blessings  of  the  poor 
Wafting  to  the  heavenly  shore ! 


TO  FREDRIKA  BREMER. 

SEERESS  of  the  misty  Norland, 
Daughter  of   the  Vikings   bold, 

Welcome  to  the  sunny  Vineland, 
Which  thy  fathers   sought  of  old! 

Soft  as   flow  of   Silja's  waters, 
When  the  moon  of  summer  shines, 

Strong   as    Winter    from    his    moun 
tains 
Roaring  through  the  sleeted  pines. 

Heart  and  ear,  we  long  have  listened 
To  thy  saga,  rune,  and  song, 

As  a  household  joy  and  presence 
We   have   known   and   loved    thee 
long. 

By  the  mansion's  marble  mantel, 
Round      the      log-walled      cabin's 

hearth, 
Thy   sweet    thoughts     and    northern 

fancies 
Meet  and  mingle  with  our  mirth. 

And  o'er  weary  spirits  keeping 
Sorrow's     night-watch,    long     and 
chill, 

Shine  they  like   thy  sun  of  summer 
Over  midnight  vale  and  hill. 

We  alone  to  thee  are  strangers, 
Thou  our  friend  and  teacher  art ; 

Come,    and    know    us    as    we    know 

thee; 
Let  us  meet  thee  heart  to  heart ! 


To  our  homes  and  household  altars 
We,  in  turn,  thy  steps  would  lead, 

As  thy  loving  hand  has  led  us 
O'er  the  threshold  of  the  Swede. 


APRIL. 

"The  spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way." 
Christabel. 

T  is  the  noon  of  the  spring-time,  yet 
never  a  bird 

In  the  wind-shaken  elm  or  the  maple 
is  heard; 

For  green  meadow-grasses  wide  lev 
els  of  snow, 

And  blowing  of  drifts  where  the  cro 
cus  should  blow ; 

Where  wind-flower  and  violet,  amber 
and  white, 

On  south-sloping  brooksides  should 
smile  in  the  light, 

O'er  the  cold  winter-beds  of  their 
late-waking  roots 

The  frosty  flake  eddies,  the  ice-crys 
tal  shoots; 

And,  longing  for  light,  under  wind- 
driven  heaps, 

Round  the  boles  of  the  pine-wood  the 
ground-laurel  creeps, 

Unkissed  of  the  sunshine,  unbaptized 
of  showers, 

With  buds  scarcely  swelled,  which 
should  burst  into  flowers ! 

We  wait  for  thy  coming,  sweet  wind 
of  the  south ! 

For  the  touch  of  thy  light  wings,  the 
kiss  of  thy  mouth ; 

For  the  yearly  evangel  thou  bearest 
from  God, 

Resurrection  and  life  to  the  graves  of 
the  sod! 

Up  our  long  river-valley,  for  days, 
have  not  ceased 

The  wail  and  the  shriek  of  the  bitter 
northeast, — 

Raw  and  chill,  as  if  winnowed  through 
ices  and  snow, 

All  the  way  from  the  land  of  the  wild 
Esquimau, — 

Until  all  our  dreams  of  the  land  of 
the  blest, 

Like  that  red  hunter's,  turn  to  the 
sunny  southwest. 


212 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


O  soul  of  the  spring-time,  its  light 
and  its  breath, 

Bring  warmth  to  this  coldness,  bring 
life  to  this  death; 

Renew  the  great  miracle;  let  us  be 
hold 

The  stone  from  the  mouth  of  the 
sepulchre  rolled, 

And  Nature,  like  Lazarus,  rise,  as  of 
old! 

Let  our  faith,  which  in  darkness  and 
coldness  has  lain, 

Revive  with  the  warmth  and  the 
brightness  again, 

And  in  blooming  of  flower  and  bud 
ding  of  tree 

The  symbols  and  types  of  our  destiny 
see; 

The  life  of  the  spring-time,  the  life 
of  the  whole, 

And,  as  sun  to  the  sleeping  earth, 
love  to  the  soul! 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES. 
1850. 

THE  evil  days  have  come, — the  poor 

Are  made  a  prey; 
Bar  up  the  hospitable  door, 
Put  out  the  fire-lights,  point  no  more 

The  wanderer's  way. 

For  Pity  now  is  crime;  the  chain 

Which  binds  our  States 
Is  melted  at  her  hearth  in  twain, 
Is  rusted  by  her  tears'  soft  rain: 

Close  up  her  gates. 

Our  Union,  like  a  glacier  stirred 

By  voice  below, 

Or  bell  of  kine,  or  wing  of  bird, 
A  beggar's  crust,  a  kindly  word 

May  overthrow ! 

Poor,  whispering  tremblers  ! — yet  we 

boast 
Our  blood  and  name; 


Bursting  its  century-bolted  frost, 
Each  gray  cairn  on  the  Northman's 

coast 
Cries  out  for  shame! 

0  for  the  open  firmament, 

The  prairie  free, 
The  desert  hillside,  cavern-rent, 
The  Pawnee's  lodge,  the  Arab's  tent, 

The  Bushman's  tree! 

Than  web  of  Persian  loom  most  rare, 

Or  soft  divan, 
Better  the  rough  rock,  bleak  and  bare, 
Or  hollow  tree,  which  man  may  share 

With  suffering  man. 

1  hear  a  voice :  "  Thus  saith  the  Law, 

Let  Love  be  dumb ; 
Clasping  her  liberal  hands  in  awe, 
Let  sweet-lipped  Charity  withdraw 

From  hearth  and  home." 

I  hear  another  voice :  "  The  poor 

Are  thine  to  feed; 

Turn  not  the  outcast  from  thy  door, 
Nor  give  to  bonds  and  wrong  once 
more 

Whom  God  hath  freed." 

Dear  Lord!    between    that    law  and 
thee 

No  choice  remains; 
Yet  not  untrue  to  man's  decree, 
Though  spurning  its  rewards,  is  he    . 

Who  bears  its  pains. 

Not  mine  Sedition's  trumpet-blast 

And  threatening  word ; 
I  read  the  lesson  of  the  Past, 
That  firm  endurance  wins  at  last 

More  than  the  sword. 

O    clear-eyed    Faith,    and    Patience, 

thou 

So  calm  and  strong ! 
Lend  strength  to  weakness,  teach  us 

how 
The     sleepless     eyes     of     God    look 

through 
This  night  of  wrong! 


A  SABBATH  SCENE. 


213 


A  SABBATH  SCENE. 

SCARCE  had  the  solemn  Sabbath-bell 
Ceased  quivering  in  the  steeple, 

Scarce  had  the  parson  to  his  desk 
Walked  stately  through  his  people, 

When  down  the  summer-shaded  street 

A  wasted  female  figure, 
With  dusky  brow  and  naked  feet, 

Came  rushing  wild  and  eager. 

She  saw  the  white  spire  through  the 

trees, 

She   heard  the  sweet  hymn  swell 
ing: 

O  pitying  Christ !  a  refuge  give 
That  poor  one  in  thy  dwelling! 

Like  a  scared  fawn  before  the  hounds, 
Right  up  the  aisle  she  glided, 

While  close  behind  her,  whip  in  hand, 
A  lank-haired  hunter  strided. 

She  raised  a  keen  and  bitter  cry, 
To  Heaven  and  Earth  appealing; — 

Were     manhood's     generous     pulses 

dead? 
Had  woman's  heart  no  feeling? 

A  score  of  stout  hands  rose  between 
The  hunter  and  the  flying: 

Age   clenched  his   staff,  and  maiden 

eyes 
Flashed  tearful,  yet  defying. 

"  Who  dares  profane  this  house  and 

day?" 

Cried  out  the  angry  pastor. 
"  Why,  bless  your  soul,  the  wench  's 

a  slave, 
And  I  'm  her  lord  and  master ! 

"  I  've  law  and  gospel  on  my  side, 
And  who   shall   dare   refuse  me? " 

Down  came  the  parson,  bowing  low, 
"My  good  sir,  pray  excuse  me! 

"  Of  course  I  know  your  right  divine 
To  own  and  work  and  whip  her; 


Quick,  deacon,  throw  that  Polyglott 
Before  the  wench,  and  trip  her!' 

Plump   dropped  the  holy  tome,   and 

o'er 

Its  sacred  pages  stumbling, 
Bound  hand  and  foot,  a  slave  once 

more, 
The  hapless  wretch  lay  trembling. 

I  saw  the  parson  tie  the  knots, 
The  while  his  flock  addressing, 

The  Scriptural  claims  of  slavery 
With  text  on  text  impressing. 

"Although,"    said  he,   "on    Sabbath 
day, 

All  secular  occupations 
Are  deadly  sins,  we  must  fulfil 

Our  moral  obligations : 

"  And  this  commends  itself  as  one 
To  every  conscience  tender ; 

As  Paul  sent  back  Onesimus, 

My    Christian     friends,    we     send 
her!" 

Shriek  rose  on  shriek, — the  Sabbath 
air 

Her  wild  cries  tore  asunder; 
I  listened,  with  hushed  breath,  to  hear 

God  answering  with  his  thunder ! 

All  still!— the  very  altar's  cloth 
Had   smothered   down   her   shriek 
ing, 
And,  dumb,  she  turned  from  face  to 

face, 
For  human  pity  seeking! 

I  saw  her  dragged  along  the  aisle, 
Her  shackles  harshly  clanking; 

I  heard  the  parson,  over  all, 
The  Lord  devoutly  thanking! 

My  brain  took  fire :  "  Is  this,"  I  cried, 
"The  end  of  prayer  and  preaching? 

Then   down   with   pulpit,   down   with 

priest, 
And  give  us  Nature's  teaching ! 

"  Foul  shame  and  scorn  be  on  ye  all 
Who  turn  the  good  to  evil, 


214 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


And  steal  the  Bible  from  the  Lord, 
To  give  it  to  the  Devil ! 

"  Than  garbled  text  or  parchment  law 

I  own  a  statute  higher; 
And  God  is  true,  though  every  book 

And  every  man  's  a  liar !  " 


Just  then  I  felt  the  deacon's  hand 
In  wrath  my  coat-tail  seize  on; 

I  heard  the  priest  cry,  "  Infidel !  " 
The  lawyer  mutter,  "  Treason !  " 


I     started     up, — where     now     were 
church, 

Slave,  master,  priest,  and  people? 
I  only  heard  the  supper-bell, 

Instead  of  clanging  steeple. 


But,  on  the  open  window's  sill, 
O'er     which     the     white     blooms 
drifted, 

The  pages  of  a  good  old  Book 
The  wind  of  summer  lifted. 


And  flower  and  vine,  like  angel  wings 
Around  the  Holy  Mother, 

Waved  softly  there,  as  if  God's  truth 
And  Mercy  kissed  each  other. 


And  freely  from  the  cherry-bough 
Above  the  casement  swinging, 

With  golden  bosom  to  the  sun, 
The  oriole  was  singing. 


As  bird  and  flower  made  plain  of  old 
The  lesson  of  the  Teacher, 

So  now  I  heard  the  written  Word 
Interpreted  by  Nature ! 


REMEMBRANCE. 

WITH    COPIES    OF    THE    AUTHORS 
WRITINGS. 

FRIEND  of  mine!  whose  lot  was  cast 
With  me  in  the  distant  past, — 
Where,  like  shadows  flitting  fast, 

Fact  and  fancy,  thought  and  theme, 
Word  and  work,  begin  to  seem 
Like   a    half-remembered   dream ! 

Touched  by  change  have  all   things 

been, 

Yet  I  think  of  thee  as  when 
We  had  speech  of  lip  and  pen. 

For  the  calm  thy  kindness  lent 
To  a  path  of  discontent, 
Rough  with  trial  and  dissent ; 

Gentle  words  where  such  were  few, 
Softening  blame   where    blame    was 

true, 
Praising  where  small  praise  was  due ; 

For  a  waking  dream  made  good, 

For  an  ideal  understood, 

For  thy  Christian  womanhood ; 

For  thy  marvellous  gift  to  cull 
From  our  common  life  and  dull 
Whatsoe'er  is  beautiful; 

Thoughts  and  fancies,  Hybla's  bees 
Dropping     sweetness ;     true     heart's- 

ease 
Of  congenial    sympathies ; — 

Still  for  these  I  own  my  debt ; 
Memory,  with  her  eyelids   wet, 
Fain  would  thank  thee  even  vet ! 


For  to  my  ear  methought  the  breeze  And  as  one  who  scatters  flowers 
Bore  Freedom's  blessed  word  on;    Where   the  Queen    of    May's    sweet 

hours 

with 


THUS   SAITH  THE  LORD  :     BREAK  EVERY 

YOKE, 
UNDO  THE  HEAVY  BURDEN  ! 


Sits,      o'ertwined 
bowers, 


blossomed 


KATHLEEN. 


215 


In  superfluous  zeal  bestowing 
Gifts  where  gifts  are  overflowing, 
So  I  pay  the  debt  I  'm  owing. 

To  thy  full  thoughts,  gay  or  sad, 
Sunny-hued  or  sober  clad, 
Something  of  my  own  I  add; 

Well  assured  that  thou  wilt  take 
Even  the  offering  which  I  make 
Kindly  for  the  giver's  sake. 


THE   POOR   VOTER   ON   ELEC 
TION  DAY. 

THE  proudest  now  is  but  my  peer, 

The  highest  not  more  high ; 
To-day,  of  all  the  weary  year, 

A  king  .of  men  am  I. 
To-day,  alike  are  great  and  small, 

The  nameless  and  the  known; 
My  palace  is  the  people's  hall, 

The  ballot-box  my  throne! 

Who  serves  to-day  upon  the  list 

Beside  the  served  shall  stand; 
Alike  the  brown  and  wrinkled  fist, 

The  gloved  and  dainty  hand ! 
The  rich  is  level  with  the  poor, 

The  weak  is  strong  to-day; 
And    sleekest   broadcloth    counts    no 
more 

Than  homespun  frock  of  gray. 

To-day  let  pomp  and  vain  pretence 

My  stubborn  right  abide ; 
I  set  a  plain  man's  common  sense 

Against  the  pedant's  pride. 
To-day  shall  simple  manhood  try 

The  strength  of  gold  and  land; 
The   wide  world   has  not  wealth  to 
buy 

The  power  in  my  right  hand ! 

While  there  's  a  grief  to  seek  redress, 

Or  balance  to  adjust, 
Where   weighs    our    living   manhood 
less 

Than  Mammon's  vilest  dust, — 


While   there's   a   right  to   need  my 
vote, 

A  wrong  to  sweep  away, 
Up !  clouted  knee  and  ragged  coat ! 

A  man's  a  man  to-day! 


TRUST. 

THE  same  old  baffling  questions!  O 

my  friend, 

I  cannot  answer  them.    In  vain  I  send 
My  soul  into  the  dark,  where  never 

burn 

The  lamps  of  science,  nor  the  natu 
ral  light 
Of  Reason's  sun  and  stars!  I  cannot 

learn 
Their  great  and  solemn  meanings,  nor 

discern 
The  awful  secrets  of  the  eyes  which 

turn 
Evermore  on  us  through  the  day 

and  night 
With  silent  challenge  and  a  dumb 

demand, 
Proffering  the  riddles  of  the  dread 

unknown, 
Like  the  calm   Sphinxes,  with  their 

eyes  of  stone, 
Questioning     the     centuries     from 

their  veils  of  sand! 
I  have  no  answer  for  myself  or  thee, 
Save  that  I  learned  beside  my  moth 
er's  knee; 

"All  is  of  God  that  is,  and  is  to  be; 
And  God  is  good."    Let  this  suffice 

us  still, 
Resting  in  childlike  trust  upon  his 

will 
Who  moves   to   his   great   ends   un- 

thwarted  by  the  ill. 


KATHLEEN. 

O  NORAH,  lay  your  basket  down, 
And  rest  your  weary  hand, 

And  come  and  hear  me  sing  a  song 
Of  our  old  Ireland. 


216 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


There  was  a  lord  of  Galaway, 

A  mighty  lord  was  he;    . 
And  he  did  wed  a  second  wife, 

A  maid  of  low  degree. 

But  he  was  old,  and  she  was  young, 

And -so,  in  evil  spite, 
She  baked  the  black  bread  for  his  kin, 

And  fed  her  own  with  white. 

She  whipped  the  maids  and  starved 
the  kern, 

And  drove  away  the  pofcr; 
"  Ah,  woe  is  me !  "  the  old  lord  said, 

"  I  rue  my  bargain  sore !  " 

This  lord  he  had  a  daughter  fair, 
Beloved  of  old  and  young, 

And  nightly  round  the  shealing-fires 
Of  her  the  gleeman  sung. 

"As  sweet  and  good  is  young  Kath 
leen 

As  Eve  before  her  fall"; 
So  sang  the  harper  at  the  fair, 

So  harped  he  in  the  hall. 

"  O  come  to  me,  my  daughter  dear ! 

Come  sit  upon  my  knee, 
For  looking  in  your  face,  Kathleen, 

Your  mother's  own  I  see !  " 

He  smoothed  and  smoothed  her  hair 
away, 

He  kissed  her  forehead  fair; 
"It  is  my  darling  Mary's  brow, 

It  is  my  darling's  hair !  " 

O,  then  spake  up  the  angry  dame, 
"  Get  up,  get  up,"  quoth  she, 

"  I  '11  sell  ye  over  Ireland, 
I  '11  sell  ye  o'er  the  sea !  " 

She  clipped  her  glossy  hair  away, 
That  none  her  rank  might  know, 

She  took  away  her  gown  of  silk, 
And  gave  her  one  of  tow, 

And  sent  her  down  to  Limerick  town, 
And  to  a  seaman  sold 


This  daughter  of  an  Irish  lord 
For  ten  good  pounds  in  gold. 

The  lord  he  smote  upon  his  breast, 
And  tore  his  beard  so  gray; 

But  he  was  old,  and  she  was  young, 
And  so  she  had  her  way. 

Sure   that    same   night   the    Banshee 
howled 

To  fright  the  evil  dame, 
And  fairy  folks,  who  loved  Kathleen, 

With  funeral  torches  came. 

She  watched  them  glancing  through 

the  trees, 

And  glimmering  down  the  hill; 
They    crept    before     the     dead-vault 

door, 
And  there  they  all  stood  still! 

"Get  up,   old  man!   the  wake-lights 

shine!" 

"Ye  murthering  witch,"  quoth  he, 
"  So  I  'm  rid  of  your  tongue,  I  little 

care 
If  they  shine  for  you  or  me. 

"  O,  whoso  brings  my  daughter  back, 
My  gold  and  land  shall  have !  " 

O,  then  spake  up  his  handsome  page, 
"  No  gold  nor  land  I  crave ! 

"  But  give  to  me  your  daughter  dear, 
Give  sweet  Kathleen  to  me, 

Be  she  on  sea  or  be  she  on  land, 
I  '11  bring  her  back  to  thee." 

"  My  daughter  is  a  lady  born, 

And  you  of  low  degree, 
But  she  shall  be  your  bride  the  day 

You  bring  her  back  to  me." 

He  sailed  east,  he  sailed  west, 
And  far  and  long  sailed  he, 

Until  he  came  to  Boston  town, 
Across  the  great  salt  sea. 

"  O,  have  ye  seen  the  young  Kathleen, 
The  flower  of  Ireland? 


INDEPENDENCE  HALL,  FROM  THE  PARK. 

And  fitting  is  it  that  this  Hall  should  stand 
Where  Pennsylvania's  Founder  led  his  band. 


FIRST-DAY  THOUGHTS. 


217 


Ye  '11  know  her  by  her  eyes  so  blue, 
And  by  her  snow-white  hand !  " 

Out  spake  an  ancient  man,  "  I  know 
The  maiden  whom  ye  mean ; 

I  bought  her  of  a  Limerick  man, 
And  she  is  called  Kathleen. 

"  No  skill  hath  she  in  household  work, 
Her  hands  are  soft  and  white, 

Yet  well  by  loving  looks  and  ways 
She  doth  her  cost  requite." 

So  up  they  walked  through   Boston 
town, 

And  met  a  maiden  fair, 
A  little  basket  on  her  arm 

So  snowy-white  and  bare. 

"  Come   hither,    child,    and    say    hast 
thou 

This  young  man  ever  seen  ?  " 
They  wept  within  each  other's  arms, 

The  page  and  young  Kathleen. 

"  O  give  to  me  this  darling  child, 
And  take  my  purse  of  gold." 

"  Nay,  not  by  me,"  her  master  said, 
"  Shall  sweet  Kathleen  be  sold. 

"  We  loved  her  in  the  place  of  one 
The  Lord  hath  early  ta'en; 

But,  since  her  heart's  in  Ireland. 
We  give  her  back  again ! " 

O,  for  that  same  the  saints  in  heaven 
For  his  poor  soul  shall  pray, 

And  Mary  Mother  wash  with  tears 
His  heresies  away. 

Sure  now  they  dwell  in  Ireland, 

As  you  go  up  Claremore 
Ye  11  see  their  castle  looking  down 

The  pleasant  Galway  shore. 

And  the  old  lord's  wife  is  dead  and 

gone, 
And  a  happy  man  is  he, 


For  he  sits  beside  his  own  Kathleen, 
With  her  darling  on  his  knee. 


FIRST-DAY  THOUGHTS. 

IN  calm  and  cool  and  silence,  once 

again 
I   find  my    old    accustomed    place 

among 
My  brethren,  where,  perchance,  no 

human  tongue 
Shall   utter    words;     where    never 

hymn  is  sung, 
Nor  deep-toned  organ  blown,  nor 

censer  swung, 

Nor  dim  light  falling  through  the  pic 
tured  pane! 
There,    syllabled   by    silence,    let   me 

hear 
The  still  small  voice  which  reached 

the  prophet's  ear; 
Read  in  my  heart  a  still  diviner  law 
Than   Israel's   leader  on    his    tables 

saw ! 

There  let  me  strive  with  each  beset 
ting  sin, 
Recall   my  wandering  fancies,  and 

restrain 
The    sore    disquiet    of     a     restless 

brain; 
And,  as  the  path  of  duty  is  made 

plain, 
May  grace  be  given  that  I  may  walk 

therein, 
Not  like  the  hireling,  for  his  selfish 

gain, 
With  backward  glances  and  reluctant 

tread, 
Making     a     merit     of     his     coward 

dread, — 
But,  cheerful,  in  the  light  around 

me  thrown, 
Walking  as  one  to  pleasant  service 

led; 
Doing  God's  will  as  if  it  were  my 

own, 

Yet  trusting  not  in  mine,  but  in  his 
strength  alone! 


218 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


KOSSUTH. 

TYPE  of    two    mighty    continents! — 

combining 

The  strength   of   Europe   with   the 
warmth  and  glow 

Of    Asian    song    and    prophecy, — the 

shining 

Of  Orient  splendors  over  Northern 
snow ! 

Who  shall  receive  him?     Who,  un 
blushing,  speak 

Welcome  to  him,  who,  while  he  strove 
to  break 

The    Austrian   yoke     from     Magyar 
necks,  smote  off 

At  the  same  blow  the  fetters  of  the 
serf,— 

Rearing  the  altar  of  his  Father-land 
On  the  firm  base  of  freedom,  and 
thereby 

Lifting  to  Heaven  a  patriot's  stainless 

hand, 

Mocked  not  the  God  of  Justice  with 
a  lie! 

Who  shall  be  Freedom's  mouth-piece? 
Who  shall  give 

Her  welcoming  cheer  to    the    great 
fugitive  ? 

Not  he  who,  all  her  sacred  trusts  be 
traying, 
Is  scourging  back  to  slavery's  hell 

of  pain 

The  swarthy  Kossuths  of  our  land 
again ! 

Not  he  whose  utterance  now  from  lips 
designed 

The    bugle-march      of     Liberty      to 
wind, 

And  call  her  hosts  beneath  the  break 
ing  light,— 

The   keen    reveille    of   her   morn   of 

fight,— 

Is  but  the  hoarse  note  of  the  blood 
hound's  baying, 

The   wolf's    long     howl     behind     the 
bondman's  flight ! 

O  for  the  tongue  of  him  who  lies  at 
rest 


In    Quincy's    shade   of   patrimonial 
trees, — 

Last  of  the  Puritan  tribunes  and  the 

best,— 

To  lend  a  voice  to  Freedom's  sym 
pathies, 

And  hail  the  coming  of  the  noblest 
guest 

The  Old  World's  wrong  has  given  the 
New  World  of  the  West! 


TO   MY   OLD   SCHOOLMASTER. 

AN  EPISTLE  NOT  AFTER  THE   MANNER  OF 
HORACE. 

OLD  friend,  kind  friend !  lightly  down 
Drop     time's     snow-flakes     on     thy 

crown ! 

Never  be  thy  shadow  less, 
Never  fail  thy  cheerfulness; 
Care,  that  kills  the  cat,  may  plough 
Wrinkles  in  the  miser's  brow, 
Deepen   envy's   spitefifl   frown, 
Draw  the  mouths  of  bigots  down, 
Plague  ambition's  dream,  and  sit 
Heavy  on  the  hypocrite, 
Haunt  the  rich  man's  door,  and  ride 
In  the  gilded  coach  of  pride; — 
Let  the  fiend  pass ! — what  can  he 
Find  to  do  with  such  as  thee? 
Seldom  comes  that  evil  guest 
Where  the  conscience  lies  at  rest, 
And  brown  health  and  quiet  wit 
Smiling  on  the  threshold  sit. 

I,  the  unchin  unto  whom, 
In  that  smoked  and  dingy  room, 
Where  the  district  gave  thee  rule 
O'er  its  ragged  winter  school, 
Thou  didst  teach  the  mysteries 
Of  those  weary  A  B  C's, — 
Where,  to  fill  the  every  pause 
Of  thy  wise  and  learned  saws, 
Through  the  cracked  and  crazy  wall 
Came  the  cradle-rock  and  squall, 
And  the  goodman's  voice,  at  strife 
With  his  shrill  and  tipsy  wife, — 
Luring  us  by  stories  old, 
With  a  comic  unction  told, 


TO  MY  SCHOOLMASTER. 


More  than  by  the  eloquence 
Of  terse  birchen  arguments 
(Doubtful  gain,  I  fear),  to  look 
With  complacence  on  a  book! — 
Where  the  genial  pedagogue 
Half  forgot  his  rogues  to  flog, 
Citing  tale  or  apologue, 
Wise  and  merry  in  its  drift  i 
As  old  Phaedrus'  twofold  gift, 
Had  the  little  rebels  known  it, 
Rlsum  et  prudentiam  monet! 
I, — the  man  of  middle  years, 
In  whose  sable  locks  appears 
Many  a  warning  fleck  of  gray, — 
Looking  back  to  that  far  day, 
And  thy  primal  lessons,  feel 
Grateful  smiles  my  lips  unseal, 
As,  remembering  thee,  I  blend 
Olden  teacher,  present  friend, 
Wise  with  antiquarian  search, 
In  the  scrolls  of  State  and  Church; 
Named  on  history's  title-page, 
Parish-clerk  and  justice  sage; 
For  the  ferule's  wholesome  awe 
Wielding  now  the  sword  of  law. 


Threshing  Time's  neglected  sheaves, 
Gathering  up  the  scattered  leaves 
Which  the  wrinkled  sibyl  cast 
Careless  from  her  as  she  passed, — 
Twofold  citizen  art  thou, 
Freeman  of  the  past  and  now. 
He  who  bore  thy  name  of  old 
Midway  in  the  heavens  did  hold 
Over  Gibeon  moon  and  sun ; 
Thou    hast    bidden    them    backward 

run; 

Of  to-day  the  present  ray 
Flinging  over  yesterday! 

Let  the  busy  ones  deride 

What  I  deem  of  right  thy  pride; 

Let  the  fools  their  tread-mills  grind, 

Look  not   forward  nor  behind, 

Shuffle  in  and  wriggle  out, 

Veer  with  every  breeze  about, 

Turning  like  a  windmill  sail, 

Or  a  dog  that  seeks  his  tail; 

Let  them  laugh  to  see  thee  fast 

Tabernacled  in  the  Past, 

Working  out  with  eye  and  lip, 


Riddles  of  old  penmanship, 
Patient  as  Belzoni  there 
Sorting  out,  with  loving  care, 
Mummies  of  dead  questions  stripped 
From  their  sevenfold  manuscript! 


Dabbling,  in  their  noisy  way, 

In  the  puddles  of  to-day, 

Little  know  they  of  that  vast 

Solemn  ocean  of  the  past, 

On  whose  margin,  wreck-bespread, 

Thou  art  walking  with  the  dead, 

Questioning  the  stranded  years, 

Waking  smiles,  by  turns,  and  tears, 

As  thou  callest  up  again 

Shapes  the  dust  has  long  o'erlain,— 

Fair-haired  woman,  bearded  man, 

Cavalier  and   Puritan; 

In  an  age  whose  eager  view 

Seeks  but  present  things,  and  new, 

Mad  for  party,  sect,  and  gold, 

Teaching  reverence  for  the  old. 


On  that  shore,  with  fowler's  tact, 
Coolly  bagging  fact  on  fact, 
Naught  amiss  to  thee  can  float, 
Tale,  or  song,  or  anecdote; 
Village  gossip,  centuries  old, 
Scandals  by  our  grandams  told, 
What  the  pilgrim's  table  spread, 
Where  he  lived,  and  whom  he  wed; 
Long-drawn  bill  of  wine  and  beer 
For  his  ordination  cheer, 
Or  the  flip  that  wellnigh  made 
Glad  his  funeral  cavalcade ; 
Weary  prose,  and  poet's  lines, 
Flavored  by  their  age,  like  wines, 
Eulogistic  of  some  quaint, 
Doubtful,  puritanic  saint; 
Lays  that  quickened  husking  jigs, 
Jests  that  shook  grave  periwigs, 
When  the  parson  had  his  jokes 
And  his  glass,  like  other  folks; 
Sermons  that,  for  mortal  hours, 
Taxed  our  fathers'  vital  powers, 
As  the  long  nineteenthlies  poured 
Downward  from  the  sounding-board, 
And,  for  fire  of  Pentecost, 
Touched     their     beards     December's 
frost. 


220 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Time  is  hastening  on,  and  we 
What  our  fathers  are  shall  be, — 
Shadow-shapes  of  memory! 
Joined  to  that  vast  multitude 
Where  the  great  are  but  the-  good, 
And    the    mind    of    strength     shall 

prove 

Weaker  than  the  heart  of  love; 
Pride  of  graybeard  wisdom  less 
Than  the  infant's  guilelessness, 
And  his  song  of  sorrow  more 
Than  the  crown  the  Psalmist  wore ! 
Who  shall  then,  with  pious  zeal, 
At  our  moss-grown  thresholds  kneel, 
From  a  stained  and  stony  page 
Reading  to  a  careless  age, 
With  a  patient  eye  like  thine, 
Prosing  tale  and  limping  line, 
Names  and  words  the  hoary  rime 
Of  the  Past  has  made  sublime? 
Who  shall  work  for  us  as  well 
The  antiquarian's  miracle? 
Who  to  seeming  life  recall 
Teacher  grave  and  pupil  small? 
Who  shall  give  to  thee  and  me 
Freeholds  in  futurity? 

Well,  whatever  lot  be  mine, 
Long  and  happy  days  be  thine, 
Ere  thy  full  and  honored  age 
Dates  of  time  its  latest  page ! 
Squire  for  master,  State  for  school, 
Wisely  lenient,  live  and  rule ; 
Over  grown-up  knave  and  rogue 
Play  the  watchful  pedagogue; 


Or,  while  pleasure  smiles  on  duty, 
At  the  call  of  youth  and  beauty, 
Speak  for  them  the  spell  of  law 
Which  shall  bar  and  bolt  withdraw, 
And  the  flaming  sword  remove 
From  the  Paradise  of  Love 
Still,  with  undimmed  eyesight  pore 
Ancient  tome  and  record  o'er ; 
Still  thy  week-day  lyrics   croon, 
Pitch  in  church  the  Sunday  tune, 
'Showing  something,  in  thy  part, 
Of  the  old  Puritanic  art, 
Singer  after  Sternhold's  heart ! 
In  thy  pew,  for  many  a  year, 
Homilies  from  Oldbug  hear, 
Who  to  wit  like  that  of  South, 
And  the  Syrian's  golden  mouth, 
Doth  the  homely  pathos  add 
Which  the  pilgrim  preachers  had ; 
Breaking,  like  a  child  at  play, 
Gilded  idols  of  the  day, 
Cant  of  knave  and  pomp  of  fool 
Tossing  with  his  ridicule, 
Yet,  in  earnest  or  in  jest, 
Ever  keeping  truth  abreast. 
And,  when  thou  art  called,  at  last, 
To  thy  townsmen  of  the  past, 
Not  as  stranger  shalt  thou  come; 
Thou  shalt  find  thyself  at  home! 
With  the  little  and  the  big, 
Woollen  cap  and  periwig, 
Madam  in  her  high-laced  ruff, 
Goody  in  her  home-made  stuff,— 
Wise  and  simple,  rich  and  poor, 
Thou  hast  known  them  all  before ! 


THE  PANORAMA. 


221 


THE  PANORAMA,  AND    OTHER   POEMS,  1856. 

"  A  !  f  redome  is  a  nobill  thing ! 
Fredome  mayse  man  to  haif  liking. 
Fredome  all  solace  to  man  giffis ; 
He  levys  at  ese  that  f  rely  levys ! 
A  nobil  hart  may  haif  nane  ese 
Na  ellys  nocht  that  may  him  plese 
Gyff  Fredome  failythe." 

ARCHDEACON  B ARBOUR. 


THROUGH   the  long  hall  the   shut 
tered  windows  shed 
A   dubious   light   on   every   upturned 

head, — 
On  locks  like  those  of  Absalom  the 

fair, 
On  the  bald  apex  ringed  with  scanty 

hair, 
On  blank  indifference  and  on  curious 

stare; 
On  the  pale  Showman  reading  from 

his  stage 
The    hieroglyphics     of     that     facial 

page; 
Half  sad,   half  scornful,  listening  to 

the  bruit 
Of    restless    cane-tap    and    impatient 

foot, 
And  the  shrill  call,  across  the  general 

din, 
"  Roll  up  your  curtain !  Let  the  show 

begin ! " 


At  length  a  murmur  like  the  winds 
that  break 

Into  green  waves  the  prairie's  grassy 
lake, 

Deepened  and  swelled  to  music  clear 
and  loud, 

And,  as  the  west-wind  lifts  a  summer 
cloud, 

The  curtain  rose,  disclosing  wide  and 
far 

A  green  land  stretching  to  the  even 
ing  star, 

Fair  rivers,  skirted  by  primeval  trees 


And  flowers  hummed  over  by  the  des 
ert  bees, 

Marked  by  tall  bluffs  whose  slopes  of 
greenness  show 

Fantastic  outcrops  of  the  rock  be 
low, — 

The  slow  result  of  patient  Nature's 
pains, 

And  plastic  fingering  of  her  sun  and 
rains, — 

Arch,  tower,  and  gate,  grotesquely 
windowed  hall, 

And  long  escarpment  of  half-crum 
bled  wall, 

Huger  than  those  which,  from  steep 
hills  of  vine, 

Stare  through  their  loopholes  on  the 
travelled  Rhine; 

Suggesting  vaguely  to  the  gazer's 
mind 

A  fancy,  idle  as  the  prairie  wind, 

Of  the  land's  dwellers  in  an  age  un- 
guessed, — 

The  unsung  Jotuns  of  the  mystic 
West. 


Beyond,  the  prairie's  sea-like  swells 
surpass 

The  Tartar's  marvels  of  his  Land  of 
Grass, 

Vast  as  the  sky  against  whose  sunset 
shores 

Wave  after  wave  the  billowy  green 
ness  pours ; 

And,  onward  still,  like  islands  in  that 
main 


222 


THE  PANORAMA. 


Loom   the    rough   peaks   of   many   a 

mountain  chain, 
Whence   east   and   west    a   thousand 

waters  run 

From   winter   lingering   under   sum 
mer's  sun. 
And,  still  beyond,  long  lines  of  foam 

and  sand 
Tell   where   Pacific   rolls   his   waves 

a-land, 
From  many  a  wide-lapped  port  and 

land-locked  bay, 
Opening  with  thunderous  pomp  the 

world's  highway 
To  Indian  isles  of  spice,  and  marts  of 

far  Cathay. 


"  Such,"  said  the  Showman,  as  the 
curtain  fell, 

"  Is  the  new  Canaan  of  our  Israel, — 

The  land  of  promise  to  the  swarming 
North, 

Which,  hive-like,  sends  its  annual  sur 
plus  forth, 

To  the  poor  Southron  on  his  worn- 
out  soil, 

Scathed  by  the  curses  of  unnatural 
toil; 

To  Europe's  exiles  seeking  home  and 
rest, 

And  the  lank  nomads  of  the  wander 
ing  west, 

Who,  asking  neither,  in  their  love  of 
change 

And  the  free  bison's  amplitude  of 
range, 

Rear  the  log  hut,  for  present  shelter 
meant, 

Not  future  comfort,  like  an  Arab's 
tent." 


Then  spake  a  shrewd  on-looker, 
"  Sir,"  said  he, 

"  I  like  your  picture,  but  I  fain  would 
see 

A  sketch  of  what  your  promised  land 
will  be 

When,  with  electric  nerve,  and  fiery- 
brained, 


With   Nature's   forces  to   its  chariot 

chained, 
The     future     grasping    by    the    past 


The  twentieth  century  rounds  a  new 
decade." 


Then    said    the    Showman,  sadly: 

"  He  who  grieves 
Over   the    scattering    of    the   sibyl's 

leaves 
Unwisely  mourns.     Suffice  it,  that  we 

know 
What  needs  must  ripen  from  the  seed 

we  sow; 
That  present  time  is  but  the  mould 

wherein 
We  cast  the  shapes  of  holiness    and 

sin. 
A   painful   watcher    of    the    passing 

hour, 
Its  lust  of  gold,  its  strife  for  place 

and  power ; 

Its   lack  of  manhood,   honor,   rever 
ence,  truth, 

Wise-thoughted    age,    and    generous- 
hearted  youth ; 
Nor    yet    unmindful    of    each    better 

sign,— 

The  low,  far  lights,  which  on  th'  hori 
zon  shine, 
Like  those  which  sometimes  tremble 

on  the  rim 
Of  clouded  skies  when  day  is  closing 

dim, 
Flashing  athwart  the  purple  spears  of 

rain 
The   hope  of   sunshine   on   the   hills 

again : — 
I  need  no  prophet's  word,  nor  shapes 

that  pass 
Like  clouding  shadows  o'er  a  magic 

glass ; 
For    now.    as    ever,    passionless    and 

cold, 
Doth  the  dread  angel  of  the  future 

hold 
Evil    and   good    before    us,    with    no 

voice 
Or  warning  look  to  guide  us  in  our 

choice ; 


THE  PANORAMA. 


223 


With  spectral  hands  outreaching 
through  the  gloom 

The  shadowy  contrasts  of  the  coming 
doom. 

Transferred  from  these,  it  now  re 
mains  to  give 

The  sun  and  shade  of  Fate's  alterna 
tive." 


Then,  with  a  burst  of  music,  touch 
ing  all 

The  keys  of  thrifty  life,— the  mill- 
stream's  fall, 

The  engine's  pant  along  its  quivering 
rails, 

The  anvil's  ring,  the  measured  beat  of 
flails, 

The  sweep  of  scythes,  the  reaper's 
whistled  tune, 

Answering  the  summons  of  the  bells 
of  noon, 

The  woodman's  hail  along  the  river 
shores, 

The  steamboat's  signal,  and  the  dip  of 
oars, — 

Slowly  the  curtain  rose  from  off  a 
land 

Fair  as  God's  garden.  Broad  on 
either  hand 

The  golden  wheat-fields  glimmered  in 
the  sun, 

And  the  tall  maize  its  yellow  tassels 
spun. 

Smooth  highways  set  with  hedge 
rows  living  green, 

With  steepled  towns  through  shaded 
vistas  seen, 

The  school-house  murmuring  with  its 
hive-like  swarm, 

The  brook-bank  whitening  in  the 
grist-mill's  storm, 

The  painted  farm-house  shining 
through  the  leaves 

Of  fruited  orchards  bending  at  its 
eaves, 

Where  live  again,  around  the  West 
ern  hearth, 

The  homely  old-time  virtues  of  the 
North ; 

Where  the  blithe  housewife  rises  with 
the  day, 


And  well-paid  labor  counts  his  task  a 

play. 
And,    grateful     tokens     of     a     Bible 

free, 

And  the  free  Gospel  of  Humanity, 
Of  diverse  sects  and  differing  names 

the  shrines, 

One  in  their  faith,  whate'er  their  out 
ward  signs, 
Like  varying   strophes   of   the   same 

sweet  hymn 
From  many    a    prairie's    swell    and 

river's  brim, 
A  thousand  church-spires  sanctify  the 

air 
Of  the  calm  Sabbath,  with  their  sign 

of  prayer. 


Like  sudden  nightfall  over  bloom 

and  green 
The  curtain  dropped :  and,  momently, 

between 
The  clank  of  fetter  and  the  crack  of 

thong, 
Half  sob,  half  laughter,  music  swept 

along, — 
A  strange  refrain,  whose  idle  words 

and  low, 
Like  drunken  mourners,,  kept  the  time 

of  woe; 

As  if  the  revellers  at  a  masquerade 
Heard  in  the  distance  funeral  marches 

played. 
Such   music,    dashing   all   his    smiles 

with  tears, 
The  thoughtful  voyager  on  Ponchar- 

train  hears, 
Where,  through  the  noonday  dusk  of 

wooded  shores 
The   negro   boatman,    singing   to    his 

oars, 
With  a  wild  pathos  borrowed  of  his 

wrong 
Redeems  the  jargon  of  his  senseless 

song. 
"  Look,"  said  the  Showman,  sternly, 

as  he  rolled 
His  curtain  upward ;  "  Fate's  reverse 

behold!" 


224 


THE  ^ANORAMA. 


A  village  straggling  in  loose  dis 
array 

Of  vulgar  newness,  premature  decay ; 

A  tavern,  crazy  with  its  whiskey 
brawls, 

With  ''Slaves  at  Auction!"  garnish 
ing  its  walls. 

Without,  surrounded  by  a  motley 
crowd, 

The  shrewd-eyed  salesman,  garrulous 
and  loud, 

A  squire  or  colonel  in  his  pride  of 
place, 

Known  at  free  fights,  the  caucus,  and 
the  race, 

Prompt  to  proclaim  his  honor  with 
out  blot, 

And  silence  doubters  with  a  ten-pace 
shot, 

Mingling  the  negro-driving  bully's 
rant 

With  pious  phrase  and  democratic 
cant, 

Yet  never  scrupling,  with  a  filthy 
jest, 

To  sell  the  infant  from  its  mother's 
breast, 

Break  through  all  ties  of  wedlock, 
home,  and  kin, 

Yield  shrinking  girlhood  up  to  gray- 
beard  sin; 

Sell  all  the  virtues  with  his  human 
stock, 

The  Christian  graces  on  his  auction- 
block, 

And  coolly  count  on  shrewdest  bar 
gains  driven 

In  hearts  regenerate,  and  in  souls  for 
given  ! 

Look  once    again !      The    moving 

canvas  shows 

A  slave  plantation's  slovenly  repose, 
Where,  in  rude  cabins  rotting  midst 

their  weeds, 
The  human  chattel  eats,  and  sleeps, 

and  breeds ; 
And,  held  a  brute,  in  practice,  as  in 

law, 
Becomes  in  fact  the  thing  he  's  taken 

for. 


There,  early  summoned  to  the  hemp 

and  corn, 
The  nursing  mother  leaves  her  child 

new-born ; 
There   haggard    sickness,    weak    and 

deathly  faint, 
Crawls  to  his  task,  and  fears  to  make 

complaint ; 
And    sad-eyed    Rachels,    childless    in 

decay, 
Weep    for   their   lost   ones    sold  and 

torn  away ! 
Of  ampler  size  the  master's  dwelling 

stands, 
In  shabby  keeping  with  his  half-tilled 

lands,-— 
The  gates  unhinged,  the    yard    with 

weeds  unclean, 
The    cracked    veranda    with    a    tipsy 

lean. 
Without,  loose-scattered  like  a  wreck 

adrift, 
Signs  of  misrule  and  tokens  of  un- 

thrift ; 
Within,     profusion      to      discomfort 

joined, 
The     listless    body    and   the    vacant 

mind;       ,  , 

The   fear,   the  hate,    the  .theft    and 

falsehood,  born 
In  menial  hearts  of  toil,  and  stripes. 

and  scorn! 
There,  all  the  vices,  which,  like  birds 

obscene, 

Batten  on  slavery  loathsome  and  un 
clean, 
From  the  foul  kitchen  to  the  parlor 

rise, 

Pollute  the  nursery  where  the  child- 
heir  lies, 

Taint  infant  lips  beyond  all  after  cure. 
With  the  fell  poison  of  a  breast  im 
pure; 
Touch   boyhood's   passions    with   the 

breath  of  flame, 
From   girlhood's   instincts    steal    the 

blush  of  shame. 
So   swells,   from  low  to   high,   from 

weak  to  strong, 
The    tragic    chorus    of   the    baleful 

wrong ; 


THE  PANORAMA. 


225 


Guilty  or  guiltless,  all  within  its 
range 

Feel  the  blind  justice  of  its  sure  re 
venge. 


Still  scenes  like  these  the  moving 

chart  reveals. 
Up    the    long    western    steppes     the 

blighting   steals; 

Down  the  Pacific  slope  the  evil  Fate 
Glides  like  a  shadow  to  the  Golden 

Gate: 
From  sea  to  sea  the  drear  eclipse  is 

thrown, 
From  sea  to  sea  the  Mauvaises  Terres 

have  grown, 
A  belt  of  curses  on  the  New  World's 

zone! 


The  curtain  fell.  All  drew  a  freer 
breath, 

As  men  are  wont  to  do  when  mourn 
ful  death 

Is  covered  from  their  sight.  The 
Showman  stood 

With  drooping  brow  in  sorrow's  atti 
tude 

One  moment,  then  with  sudden  ges 
ture  shook 

Kis  loose  hair  back,  and  with  the  air 
and  look 

Of  one  who  felt,  beyond  the  narrow 
stage 

And  listening  group,  the  presence  of 
the  age, 

And  heard  the  footsteps  of  the  things 
to  be, 

•Poured  out  his  soul  in  earnest  words 
and  free. 


"  O  friends !  "  he  said,  "  in  this  poor 

trick  of  paint 
You    see    the    semblance,    incomplete 

and  faint, 
Of   the   two-fronted    Future,    which, 

to-day, 
Stands    dim    and    silent,    waiting    in 

your  way. 
To-day,  your  servant,  subject  to  your 

will; 


To-morrow,  master,  or  for  good  or  ill. 
If  the  dark  face  of  Slavery  on  you 

turns, 
If   the   mad   curse   its   paper  barrier 

spurns, 
If  the  world  granary  of  the  West  is 

made 
The  last  foul  market  of  the  slaver's 

trade, 
Why  rail  at  fate?     The  mischief  is 

your  own. 
Why    hate   your    neighbor?       Blame 

yourselves  alone ! 


"Men  of  the   North!    The   South 

you  charge  with  wrong 
Is  weak  and  poor,  while  you  are  rich 

and  strong. 
If    questions, — idle    and    absurd     as 

those 

The  old-time  monks  and  Paduan  doc 
tors  chose, — 
Mere  ghosts  of  questions,  tariffs,  and 

dead  banks, 
And  scarecrow  pontiffs,  never  broke 

your  ranks, 
Your  thews  united  could,  at  once,  roll 

back 

The  jostled  nation  to  its  primal  track. 
Nay,     were     you     simply     steadfast, 

manly,  just, 
True  to  the  faith  your  fathers  left  in 

trust, 
If  stainless  honor  outweighed  in  your 

scale 

A  codfish  quintal  or  a  factory  bale, 
Full  many  a  noble  heart,    (and  such 

remain 
In  all  the  South,  like  Lot  in  Siddim's 

plain, 
Who  watch  and  wait,  and  from  the 

wrong's  control 
Keep  white  and  pure  their  chastity  of 

soul,) 
Now  sick  to  loathing  of  your  weak 

complaints, 
Your    tricks    as     sinners,    and    your 

prayers   as    saints, 
Would  half-way  meet  the  frankness 

of  your  tone, 


226 


THE  PANORAMA. 


And  feel  their  pulses  beating  with 
your  own. 

"The  North!  the  South!  no  geo 
graphic  line 

Can  fix  the  boundary  or  the  point 
define, 

Since  each  with  each  so  closely  inter- 
blends, 

Where  Slavery  rises,  and  where  Free 
dom  ends. 

Beneath  your  rocks  the  roots,  far- 
reaching,  hide 

Of  the  fell  Upas  on  the  Southern 
side; 

The  trees  whose  branches  in  your 
north  winds  wave 

Dropped  its  young  blossoms  on 
Mount  Vernon's  grave; 

The  nursling  growth  of  Monticello's 
crest 

Is  now  the  glory  of  the  free  North 
west; 

To  the  wise  maxims  of  her  olden 
school 

Virginia  listened  from  thy  lips,  Ran- 
toul; 

Seward's  words  of  power,  and  Sum- 
ner's  fresh  renown, 

Flow  from  the  pen  that  Jefferson  laid 
down ! 

And  when,  at  length,  her  years  of 
madness  o'er, 

Like  the  crowned  grazer  on  Euphra 
tes'  shore, 

From  her  long  lapse  to  savagery,  her 
mouth 

Bitter  with  baneful  herbage,  turns  the 
South, 

Resumes  her  old  attire,  and  seeks  to 
smooth 

Her  unkempt  tresses  at  the  glass  of 
truth, 

Her  early  faith  shall  find  a  tongue 
again, 

New  Wythes  and  Pinckneys  swell 
that  old  refrain, 

Her  sons  with  yours  renew  the  an 
cient  pact, 

The  myth  of  Union  prove  at  last  a 
fact! 


Then,  if  one  murmur  mars  the  wide 

content, 
Some  Northern  lip  will  drawl  the  last 

dissent, 
Some   Union-saving  patriot   of  your 

own 
Lament  to  find  his  occupation  gone. 

"Grant  that  the  North's  insulted, 
scorned,  betrayed, 

O'erreached  in  bargains  with  her 
neighbor  made, 

When  selfish  thrift  and  party  held 
the  scales 

For  peddling  dicker,  not  for  honest 
sales, — 

Whom  shall  we  strike?  Who  most 
deserves  our  blame? 

The  braggart  Southron,  open  in  his 
aim, 

And  bold  as  wicked,  crashing  straight 
through  all 

That  bars  his  purpose,  like  a  cannon- 
ball? 

Or  the  mean  traitor,  breathing  north 
ern  air, 

With  nasal  speech  and  puritanic  hair, 

Whose  cant  the  loss  of  principle  sur 
vives, 

As  the  mud-turtle  e'en  its  head  out 
lives  ; 

Who,  caught,  chin-buried  in  some 
foul  offence, 

Puts  on  a  look  of  injured  innocence, 

And  consecrates  his  baseness  to  the 
cause 

Of  constitution,  union,  and  the  laws? 


"  Praise  to  the  place-man  who  can 
hold  aloof 

His  still  unpurchased  manhood,  office- 
proof  ; 

Who  on  his  round  of  duty  walks 
erect, 

And  leaves  it  only  rich  in  self-re 
spect,— 

As  MORE  maintained  his  virtue's  lofty 
port 

In  the  Eighth  Henry's  base  and 
bloody  court. 

But,  if  exceptions  here  and  there  are 
found, 


THE  PANORAMA. 


22? 


Who  tread  thus  safely  on  enchanted 

ground, 
The  normal  type,  the  fitting  symbol 

still 
Of   those   who    fatten   at   the   public 

mill, 
Is  the  chained  dog  beside  his  master's 

door, 
Or    CIRCE'S    victim,    feeding    on  all 

four ! 

"  Give  me  the  heroes  who,  at  tuck 
of  drum, 

Salute  thy  staff,  immortal  Quattle- 
bum ! 

Or  they  who,  doubly  armed  with  vote 
and  gun, 

Following  thy  lead,  illustrious  Atchi- 
son, 

Their  drunken  franchise  shift  from 
scene  to  scene. 

As  tile-beard  Jourdan  did  his  guillo 
tine  ! — 

Rather  than  him  who,  born  beneath 
our  skies, 

To  Slavery's  hand  its  supplest  tool 
supplies, — 

The  party  felon  whose  unblushing 
face 

Looks  from  the  pillory  of  his  bribe  of 
place, 

And  coolly  makes  a  merit  of  dis 
grace, — 

Points  to  the  footmarks  of  indignant 
scorn, 

Shows  the  deep  scars  of  satire's  toss 
ing  horn ; 

And  passes  to  his  credit  side  the  sum 

Of  all  that  makes  a  scoundrel's  mar 
tyrdom  ! 

"  Bane  of  the  North,  its  canker  and 

its  moth! — 
These  modern  Esaus,  bartering  rights 

for  broth ! 
Taxing  our  justice,  with  their  double 

claim, 
As  fools  for  pity,  and  as  knaves  for 

blame ; 
Who,  urged  by  party,  sect,  or  trade, 

within 
The  fell  embrace  of  Slavery's  sphere 

of  sin, 


Part  at  the  outset  with  their  moral 

sense, 
The  watchful  angel  set  for  Truth's 

defense; 
Confound  all  contrasts,  good  and  ill; 

reverse 
The  poles  of  life,  its  blessing  and  its 

curse ; 

And  lose  thenceforth  from  their  per 
verted  sight 
The     eternal     difference    'twixt    the 

wrong  and  right; 

To  them  the  Law  is  but  the  iron  span 
That   girds   the   ankles   of   imbruted 

man; 
To  them  the   Gospel  has  no  higher 

aim 
Than  simple  sanction  of  the  master'? 

claim, 
Dragged   in   the   slime  of    Slavery's 

loathsome  trail, 
Like  Chalier's  Bible  at  his  ass's  tail! 


"  Such  are  the  men  who,  with  in 
stinctive  dread, 

Whenever  Freedom  lifts  her  droop 
ing  head, 

Make  prophet-tripods  of  their  office- 
stools, 

And  scare  the  nurseries  and  the  vil 
lage  schools 

With  dire  presage  of  ruin  grim  and 
great, 

A  broken  Union  and  a  foundered 
State! 

Such  are  the  patriots,  self-bound  to 
the  stake 

Of  office,  martyrs  for  their  country's 
sake: 

Who  fill  themselves  the  hungry  jaws 
of  Fate, 

And  by  their  loss  of  manhood  save 
the  State. 

In  the  wide  gulf  themselves  like  Cur- 
tius  throw, 

And  test  the  virtues  of  cohesive 
dough ; 

As  tropic  monkeys,  linking  heads  and 
tails, 

Bridge  o'er  some  torrent  of  Ecuador's 
vales ! 


228 


THE  PANORAMA. 


"  Such  are  the  men  who  in  your 
churches  rave 

To  swearing-point,  at  mention  of  the 
slave, 

When  some  poor  parson,  haply  un 
awares, 

Stammers  of  freedom  in  his  timid 
prayers ; 

Who,  if  some  foot-sore  negro  through 
the  town 

Steals  northward,  volunteer  to  hunt 
him  down. 

Or,  if  some  neighbor,  flying  from  dis 
ease, 

Courts  the  mild  balsam  of  the  South 
ern  breeze, 

With  hue  and  cry  pursue  him  on  his 
track, 

And  write  Free-soiler  on  the  poor 
man's  back. 

Such  are  the  men  who  leave  the  ped- 
ler's  cart, 

While  faring  South,  to  learn  the 
driver's  art, 

Or,  in  white  neckcloth,  soothe  with 
pious  aim 

The  graceful  sorrows  of  some  lan 
guid  dame, 

Who,  from  the  wreck  of  her  bereave 
ment,  saves 

The  double  charm  of  widowhood  and 
slaves ! — • 

Pliant  and  apt,  they  lose  no  chance 
to  show 

To  what  base  depths  apostasy  can  go ; 

Outdo  the  natives  in  their  readiness 

To  roast  a  negro,  or  to  mob  a  press ; 

Poise  a  tarred  schoolmate  on  the 
lyncher's  rail, 

Or  make  a  bonfire  of  their  birthplace 
mail! 


"  So  some  poor  wretch,  whose  lips 
no  longer  bear 

The  sacred  burden  of  his  mother's 
prayer, 

By  fear  impelled,  or  lust  of  gold  en 
ticed, 

Turns  to  the  Crescent  from  the  Cross 
of  Christ, 


And,  over-acting  in  superfluous  zeal, 

Crawls  prostrate  where  the  faithful 
only  kneel, 

Out-howls  the  Dervish,  hugs  his  rags 
to  court 

The  squalid  Santon's  sanctity  of  dirt ; 

And,  when  beneath  the  city  gateway's 
span 

Files  slow  and  long  the  Meccan  cara 
van, 

And  through  its  midst,  pursued  by 
Islam's  prayers, 

The  prophet's  Word  some  favored 
camel  bears, 

The  marked  apostate  has  his  place 
assigned 

The  Koran-bearer's  sacred  rump  be 
hind, 

With  brush  and  pitcher  following, 
grave  and  mute, 

In  meek  attendance  on  the  holy 
brute ! 

"  Men  of  the  North !  beneath  your 

very  eyes, 

By  hearth  and  home,  your  real  dan 
ger  lies. 
Still  day  by  day  some  hold  of  freedom 

falls, 

Through  home-bred  traitors  fed  with 
in  its  walls. — • 
Men  whom  yourselves  with  vote  and 

purse  sustain, 
At  posts    of    honor,   influence,    and 

gain; 
The  right  of  Slavery  to  your  sons  to 

teach, 
And   "  South-side "   Gospels   in  your 

pulpits  preach, 
Transfix  the  Law  to  ancient  freedom 

dear 
On  the  sharp  point  of  her  subverted 

spear, 

And  imitate  upon  her  cushion  plump 
The  mad   Missourian  lynching  from 

his  stump ; 
Or,  in  your  name,  upon  the  Senate's 

floor 
Yield  up  to  Slavery  all  it  asks,  and 

more; 


THE  PANORAMA. 


229 


And,  ere  your  dull  eyes  open  to  the 
cheat, 

Sell  your  old  homestead  underneath 
your  feet ! 

While  such  as  these  your  loftiest  out 
looks  hold, 

While  truth  and  conscience  with  your 
wares  are  sold, 

While  grave-browed  merchants  band 
themselves  to  aid 

An  annual  man-hunt  for  their  South 
ern  trade, 

What  moral  power  within  your  grasp 
remains 

To  stay  the  mischief  on  Nebraska's 
plains  ? — • 

High  as  the  tides  of  generous  im 
pulse  flow, 

As  far  rolls  back  the  selfish  under 
tow: 

And  all  your  brave  resolves,  though 
aimed  as  true 

As  the  horse-pistol  Balmawhapple 
drew, 

To  Slavery's  bastions  lend  as  slight  a 
shock 

As  the  poor  trooper's  shot  to  Stirling 
rock! 


"  Yet,  while  the  need  of  Freedom's 

cause  demands 
The  earnest  efforts  of  your  hearts  and 

hands, 
Urged  by  all  motives  that  can  prompt 

the  heart 
To   prayer   and   toil   and   manhood's 

manliest  part ; 
Though  to  the  soul's  deep  tocsin  Na 
ture  joins 
The  warning  whisper  of  her  Orphic 

pines, 
The    north-wind's     anger,     and    the 

south-wind's  sigh, 
The    midnight     sword-dance    of     the 

northern  sky, 
And,  to  the  ear  that  bends  above  the 

sod 
Of   the   green    grave-mounds    in   the 

Fields  of  God, 
In  low,  deep  murmurs  of  rebuke  or 

cheer, 


The  land's  dead  fathers  speak  their 

hope  or  fear, 
Yet  let  not  Passion  wrest  from  Rea 
son's  hand 
The  guiding  rein  and  sybmol  of  com 
mand. 
Blame  not  the  caution  proffering  to 

your  zeal 
A  well-meant  drag  upon  its  hurrying 

wheel ; 
Nor  chide  the    man    whose    honest 

doubt  extends 
To  the  means  only,  not  the  righteous 

ends; 
Nor  fail  to  weigh  the  scruples  and  the 

fears 

Of  milder  natures  and  serener  years. 
In   the   long    strife    with    evil   which 

began 
With  the  first  lapse  of  new-created 

man, 

Wisely  and  well  has  Providence  as 
signed 
To    each    his    part,— some    forward, 

some  behind; 
And  they,  too,  serve  who  temper  and 

restrain 
The  o'erwarm  heart  that  sets  on  fire 

the  brain. 
True  to   yourselves,  feed  Freedom  s 

altar-flame 
With  what  you  have;  let  others  do 

the  same. 
Spare  timid   doubters;   set  like  flint 

your  face 
Against  the  self-sold  knaves  of  gain 

and  place: 
Pity   the   weak;   but   with   unsparing 

hand 
Cast  out  the  traitors  who  infest  the 

land, — 
From   bar,    press,   pulpit,    cast   them 

everywhere, 
By    dint    of    fasting,    if    you    fail    by 

prayer. 

And  in  their  place  bring  men  of  an 
tique   mould, 
Like  the  grave  fathers  of  your  Age  of 

Gold,— 
Statesmen  like  those  who  sought  the 

primal  fount 


230 


THE  PANORAMA. 


Of  righteous  law,  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount ; 

Lawyers  who  prize,  like  Quincy,  (to 
our  day 

Still  spared,  Heaven  bless  him!) 
honor  more  than  pay, 

And  Christian  jurists,  starry-pure, 
like  Jay; 

Preachers  like  Woolman,  or  like  them 
who  bore 

The  faith  of  Wesley  to  our  Western 
shore, 

And  held  no  convert  genuine  till  he 
broke 

Alike  his  servants'  and  the  Devil's 
yoke ; 

And  priests  like  him  who  Newport's 
market  trod, 

And  o'er  its  slave-ships  shook  the 
bolts  of  God! 

So  shall  your  power,  with  a  wise  pru 
dence  used, 

Strong  but  forbearing,  firm  but  not 
abused, 

In  kindly  keeping  with  the  good  of 
all, 

The  nobler  maxims  of  the  past  re 
call, 

Her  natural  home-born  right  to  Free 
dom  give, 

And  leave  her  foe  his  robber-right, — 
to  live. 

Live,  as  the  snake  does  in  his  noisome 
fen! 

Live,  as  the  wolf  does  in  his  bone- 
strewn  den ! 

Live,  clothed  with  cursing  like  a  robe 
of  flame, 

The  focal  point  of  million-fingered 
shame ! 

Live,  till  the  Southron,  who,  with  all 
his  faults, 

Has  manly  instincts,  in  his  pride  re 
volts, 

Dashes  from  off  him,  midst  the  glad 
world's  cheers, 

The  hideous  nightmare  of  his  dream 
of  years, 

And  lifts,  self-prompted,  with  his  own 
right  hand, 


The  vile  encumbrance  from  his  glo 
rious  land! 


"  So,  wheresoe'er  our  destiny  sends 

forth 
Its  widening  circles  to  the  South  or 

North, 
Where'er  our  banner  flaunts  beneath 

the  stars 
Its  mimic  splendors  and  its  cloudlike 

bars, 

There  shall  Free  Labor's  hardy  chil 
dren  stand 
The   equal   sovereigns  of  a   slaveless 

land. 
And  when  at   last  the  hunted  bison 

tires, 
And  dies  o'ertaken  by  the  squatter's 

fires; 
And   westward,   wave   on    wave,    the 

living  flood 
Breaks  on  the  snow-line  of  majestic 

Hood; 
And  lonely  Shasta  listening  hears  the 

tread 
Of     Europe's     fair-haired     children, 

Hesper-led ; 
And,   gazing   downward   through   his 

hoar-locks,  sees 
The    tawny    Asian    climb     his     giant 

knees, 
The  Eastern  sea  shall  hush  his  waves 

to  hear 
Pacific's  surf-beat  answer  Freedom's 

cheer, 
And  one  long  rolling  fire  of  triumph 

run 
Between  the  sunrise  and  the  sunset 

gun!" 


My  task  is  done.  The  Showman 
and  his  show, 

Themselves  but  shadows,  into  shad 
ows  go ; 

And,  if  no  song  of  idlesse  I  have 
sung, 

Nor  tints  of  beauty  on  the  canvas 
flung,— 


SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE. 


231 


If  the  harsh  numbers  grate  on  tender 

ears, 
And  the  rough  picture  overwrought 

appears,— 
With  deeper  coloring,  with  a  sterner 

blast, 
Before  my  soul  a  voice  and  vision 

passed, 
Such  as  might  Milton's  jarring  trump 

require, 
Or    glooms    of    Dante    fringed    with 

lurid  fire. 

O,  not  of  choice,  for  themes  of  pub 
lic  wrong 
I  leave  the  green  and  pleasant  paths 

of  song, — 
The  mild,  sweet  words  which  soften 

and  adorn, 
For  griding  taunt  and  bitter  laugh  of 

scorn. 

More  dear  to  me  some  song  of  pri 
vate  worth, 
Some    homely     idyl     of     my     native 

North, 
Some  summer  pastoral  of  her  inland 

vales 


And      sea-brown     hamlets,     through 

whose  misty  gales 
Flit   the   dim   ghosts   of   unreturning 

sails, — 
Lost  barks  at  parting  hung  from  stem 

to  helm 
With  prayers  of  love  like  dreams  on 

Virgil's  elm ; 
Nor  private  grief  nor  malice  hold  my 

pen; 

I  owe  but  kindness  to  my  fellow-men. 
And,     South     or     North,     wherever 

hearts  of  prayer 
Their   woes   and    weakness    to    our 

Father  bear, 
Wherever  fruits  of  Christian  love  are 

found 

In  holy  lives,  to  me  is  holy  ground. 
But  the  time  passes.     It  were  vain  to 

crave 
A   late   indulgence.     What   I   bad   I 

gave. 

Forget  the  poet,  but  his  warning  heed, 
And  shame  his  poor  word  with  your 

nobler  deed. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


SUMMER  BY    THE    LAKESIDE. 

I.      NOON. 

WHITE  clouds,  whose  shadows  haunt 

the  deep, 
Light    mists,    whose    soft    embraces 

keep 
The  sunshine  on  the  hills  asleep ! 

O  isles  of  calm ! — O  dark,  still  wood ! 
And  stiller  skies  that  overbrood 
Your  rest  with  deeper  quietude ! 

O   shapes  and  hues,   dim  beckoning, 

through 

Yon  mountain  gaps,  my  longing  view 
Beyond  the  purple  and  the  blue, 


To  stiller  sea  and  greener  land, 
And  softer  lights  and  airs  more  bland, 
And    skies, — the    hollow     of     God's 
hand! 

Transfused  through  you,  O  mountain 

friends ! 

With  mine  your  solemn  spirit  blends, 
And  life  no  more  hath  separate  ends. 

I  read  each  misty  mountain  sign, 
I  know  the  voice  of  wave  and  pine, 
And  I  am  yours,  and  ye  are  mine. 

Life's  burdens  fall,  its  discords  cease, 
I  lapse  into  the  glad  release 
Of  nature's  own  exceeding  peace. 


232 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


O,  welcome  calm  of  heart  and  mind! 
As  falls  yon  fir-tree's  loosened  rind 
To  leave  a  tenderer  growth  behind, 

So  fall  the  weary  years  away; 
A  child  again,  my  head  I  lay 
Upon  the  lap  of  this  sweet  day. 

This     western    wind    hath    Lethean 

powers, 

Yon  noonday  cloud  nepenthe  showers, 
The  lake  is  white  with  lotus-flowers! 

Even  Duty's  voice  is  faint  and  low, 
And  slumberous  Conscience,  waking 

slow, 
Forgets  her  blotted  scroll  to  show. 

The  Shadow  which  pursues  us  all, 
Whose   ever-nearing   steps   appall, 
Whose  voice  we  hear  behind  us  call, — 

That   Shadow  blends   with  mountain 

gray, 
It  speaks  but  what  the  light  waves 

say,— 
Death  walks  apart  from  Fear  to-day! 

Rocked    on   her   breast,    these    pines 

and   I 

Alike  on  Nature's  love  rely; 
And  equal  seems  to  live  or  die. 

Assured  that  He  whose  presence  fills 
With  light  the  spaces  of  these  hills 
No  evil  to  his  creatures  wills, 

The  simple  faith  remains,  that  He 
Will  do,  whatever  that  may  be, 
The  best  alike  for  man  and  tree. 

What  mosses  over  one  shall  grow, 
What  light  and  life  the  other  know, 
Unanxious,  leaving  Him  to  show. 

II.      EVENING. 

Yon   mountain's    side   is   black   with 

night, 

While,  broad-orbed,  o'er  its  gleam 
ing  crown 


The  moon,  slow-rounding  into  sight, 
On    the    hushed    inland    sea    looks 
down. 

How  start  to  light  the  clustering  isles, 
Each  silver-hemmed!  How  sharply 
show 

The  shadows  of  their  rocky  piles, 
And  tree-tops  in  the  wave  below! 

Sow  far  and  strange  the  mountains 

seem, 
Dim-looming  through  the  pale,  still 

light ! 

The  vague,  vast  grouping  of  a  dream, 
They  stretch  into  the  solemn  ni""ht. 

Beneath,    lake,    wood,    and    peopled 

vale, 
Hushed    by    that    presence    grand 

and  grave, 

Are  silent,  save  the  cricket's  wail, 
And  low  response  of  leaf  and  wave. 

Fair    scenes !    whereto    the   Day   and 
Night 

Make  rival  love,  I  leave  ye  soon, 
What  time  before  the  eastern  light 

The  pale  ghost  of  the  setting  moon 

Shall   hide  behind  yon  rocky  spines, 
And  the  young  archer,  Morn,  shall 

break 

His  arrows  on  the  mountain  pines, 
And,   golden-sandalled,     walk     the 
lake! 

Farewell!  around  this  smiling  bay 
Gay-hearted    Health,    and    Life    in 

bloom, 
With  lighter  steps  than  mine,  may 

stray 
In  radiant  summers  yet  to  come. 

But  none  shall  more  regretful  leave 
These  waters  and  these  hills  than 
I: 

Or,  distant,  fonder  dream  how  eve 
Or  dawn  is  painting  wave  and  sky; 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  THEBAID. 


23.°, 


How  rising  moons  shine  sad  and  mild 
On  wooded  isle  and  silvering  bay; 

Or   setting   suns   beyond   the   piled 
And  purple  mountains  lead  the  day ; 

Nor  laughing  girl,  nor  bearding  boy, 
Nor  full-pulsed  manhood,  lingering 

here, 

Shall  add,  to  life's  abounding  joy, 
The    charmed    repose   to    suffering 
dear. 

Still  waits  kind  Nature  to  impart 
Her  choicest  gifts  to  such  as  gain 

An  entrance  to  her  loving  heart 
Through    the    sharp    discipline    of 
pain. 

Forever  from  the  Hand  that  takes 
One  blessing  from  us  others  fall ; 

And,  soon  or  late,  our  Father  makes 
His  perfect  recompense  to  all ! 

O,  watched  by  Silence  and  the  Night, 
And  folded  in  the  strong  embrace 

Of  the  great  mountains,  with  the  light 
Of  the  sweet  heavens  upon  thy 
face, 

Lake   of   the    Northland!     keep    thy 

dower 

Of  beauty  still,  and  while  above 
Thy  solemn  mountains  speak  of 

power, 
Be  thou  the  mirror  of  God's  love. 


THE 


HERMIT    OF 
BAID. 


iHE    THE- 


O  STRONG,  upwelling  prayers  of  faith 
From    inmost     founts     of    life    ye 
start,— 

The  spirit's  pulse,  the  vital  breath 
Of  soul  and  heart ! 

From  pastoral  toil,  from  traffic's  din 
Alone,  in  crowds,  at  home,  abroad, 

Unheard  of  man,  ye  enter  in 
The  ear  of  God. 


Ye  brook  no  forced  and  measured 
tasks, 

Nor  weary  rote,  nor  formal  chains; 
The  simple  heart,  that  freely  asks 

In  love,  obtains. 

For  man  the  living  temple  is: 
The  mercy-seat  and  cherubim, 

And  all  the  holy  mysteries, 
He  bears  with  him. 

And  most  avails  the  prayer  of  love, 
Which,    wordless,    shapes   itself   in 
deeds, 

And  wearies  Heaven  for  naught  above 
Our  common  needs. 

/Vhich  brings  to  God's  all-perfect  will 
That  trust  of  his  undoubting  child 

Whereby  all  seeming  good  and  ill 
Are  reconciled. 

A.nd,  seeking  not  for  special  signs 
Of  favor,  is  content  to  fall 

Within  the  providence  which   shines 
And  rains  on  all. 

Alone,  the  Thebaid  hermit  leaned 
At  noontime  o'er  the  sacred  word. 

Was  it  an  angel  or  a  fiend 
Whose  voice  he  heard? 

It  broke  the  desert's  hush  of  awe, 
A    human    utterance,     sweet    and 
mild; 

And,  looking  up,  the  hermit  saw 
A  little  child. 

A  child,  with  wonder-widened  eyes, 
O'erawed  and  troubled  by  the  sight 

Of  hot,  red  sands,  and  brazen  skies, 
And  anchorite. 

"What   dost  thou  here,  poor   man? 

No  shade 
Of  cool,  green  doums,  nor  grass, 

nor  well, 
Nor   corn,   nor   vines."     The   hermit 

said : 
"  With  God  I  dwell. 


234 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


"  Alone  with  Him  in  this  great  calm, 
I  live  not  by  the  outward  sense ; 

My  Nile  his  love,  my  sheltering  palm 
His  providence." 

The  child  gazed  round  him.     "  Does 

God  live 
Here     only? — where     the     desert's 

rim 

Is  green  with  corn,  at  morn  and  eve, 
We  pray  to  Him. 

''  My  brother  tills  beside  the  Nile 
His  little  field:  beneath  the  leaves 

My  sisters  sit  and  spin  the  while, 
My  mother  weaves. 

"And   when  the  millet's   ripe  heads 

fall, 
And  all   the    bean-field    hangs    in 

pod, 

My  mother  smiles,  and  says  that  all 
Are  gifts  from  God. 

"  And    when    to    share    our    evening 
meal, 

She  calls  the  stranger  at  the  door, 
She  says  God  fills  the  hands  that  deal 

Food  to  the  poor." 

Adown  the  hermit's  wasted  cheeks 
Glistened  the  flow  of  human  tears; 

"Dear  Lord!"  he   said,   "thy  angel 

speaks, 
Thy  servant  hears." 

Within  his  arms  the  child  he  took, 
And  thought  of  home  and  life  with 
men; 

And  all  his  pilgrim  feet  forsook 
Returned  again. 

The  palmy  shadows  cool  and  long, 
The  eyes  that  smiled  through  lavish 

locks, 

Home's     cradle-hymn    and     harvest- 
song, 
And  bleat  of  flocks. 

"O  child!"  he  said,  "thou  teachest 
me 


There  is  no  place  where  God  is  not ; 
That  love  will  make,  where'er  it  be, 
A  holy  spot." 

He  rose  from  off  the  desert  sand, 
And,  leaning  on  his  staff  of  thorn, 

Went,  with  the  young  child,  hand-in- 
hand. 
Like  night  with  morn. 

They    crossed    the    desert's    burning 

line, 
And  heard  the  palm-tree's  rustling 

fan, 

The  Nile-bird's  cry,  the  low  of  kine, 
And  voice  of  man. 

Unquestioning,  his  childish  guide 
He  followed  as  the  small  hand  led 

To  where  a  woman,  gentle-eyed, 
Her  distaff  fed. 

She  rose,  she  clasped  her  truant  boy, 
She  thanked  the  stranger  with  her 
eyes. 

The  hermit  gazed  in  doubt  and  joy 
And  dumb  surprise. 

And  lo ! — with  sudden  warmth  and 
light 

A  tender  memory  thrilled  his  frame ; 
New-born,  the  world-lost  anchorite 

A  man  became. 

"  O  sister  of  El  Zara's  race, 

Behold     me ! — had     we     not     one 
mother?  " 

She  gazed  into  the  stranger's  face ; — 
"Thou  art  my  brother?" 

"  O  kin  of  blood! — Thy  life  of  use 
And    patient    trust    is    more    than 
mine; 

And  wiser  than  the  gray  recluse 
This  child  of  thine. 

"  For,  taught  of  him  whom  God  hath 

sent, 

That    toil    is    praise,    and    love    is 
prayer, 


BURNS. 


2-5 


I  come,  life's  cares  and  pains  content 
With  thee  to  share." 

Even  as  his  foot  the  threshold  crossed, 
The  hermit's  better  life  began; 

Its  holiest  saint  the  Thebaid  lost, 
And  found  a  man! 


BURNS. 

ON   RECEIVING   A    SPRIG   OF    HEATHER   IN 
BLOSSOM. 

No  more  these  simple  flowers  belong 
To    Scottish    maid   and    lover; 

Sown  in  the  common  soil  of  song, 
They  bloom  the  wide  world  over. 

In    smiles    and    tears,    in    sun    and 
showers, 

The  minstrel  and  the  heather, 
The  deathless  singer  and  the  flowers 

He  sang  of  live  together. 

Wild       heather-bells       and       Robert 
Burns ! 

The  moorland  flower  and  peasant 
How,  at  their  mention,  memory  turns 

Her   pages    old   and   pleasant! 

The  gray  sky  wears  again  its  gold 

And  purple  of  adorning, 
And   manhood's     noonday     shadow 
hold 

The  dews  of  boyhood's  morning. 

The  dews  that  washed  the  dust  an< 

soil 

From  off  the  wings  of  pleasure, 
The  sky,  that  flecked  the  ground  o 

toil 
With  golden  threads  of  leisure. 

I  call  to  mind  the  summer  day, 
The  early  harvest  mowing, 

The  sky  with  sun  and  clouds  at  pla} 
And  flowers  with  breezes  blowing 

I   hear   the  blackbird   in   the   corn, 
The  locust  in  the  haying; 


nd,  like  the  fabled  hunter's  horn, 
Old  tunes  my  heart  is  playing. 

How  oft  that  day,  with  fond  delay, 
I  sought  the  maple's  shadow, 
.nd  sang  with  Burns  the  hours  away, 
Forgetful  of  the  meadow! 

;ees  hummed,  birds  twittered,  over 
head 

I   heard   the   squirrels   leaping, 
'he  good  dog  listened  while  I  read, 

And  wagged  his  tail  in  keeping. 

watched  him  while  in  sportive  mood 
I  read  "  The  Twa  Dogs' "  story, 
And  half  believed  he  understood 
The  poet's  allegory. 

Sweet  day,  sweet  songs ! — The  golden 

hours 

Grew  brighter  for  that  singing, 
From  brook  and  bird  and  meadow 

flowers 
A  dearer  welcome  bringing. 

New    light    on    home-seen    Nature 
beamed, 

New  glory  over  Woman; 
And  daily  life  and  duty  seemed 

No  longer  poor  and  common. 

I  woke  to  find  the  simple  truth 

Of  fact  and  feeling  better 
Than   all   the   dreams   that  held  my 
youth 

A  still  repining  debtor: 

That  Nature  gives  her  handmaid,  Art, 
The  themes  of  sweet  discoursing;- 

The  tender  idyls  of  the  heart 
In  every  tongue  rehearsing. 

Why    dream   of   lands   of   gold    and 
pearl. 

Of  loving  knight  and  lady, 
When  farmer  boy  and  barefoot  girl 

Were   wandering  there   already? 

I    saw    through    all    familiar    things 
The  romance  underlying; 


236 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


The  joys  and  griefs  that  plume  the 

wings 
Of  Fancy  skyward  flying. 

I  say  the  same  blithe  day  return, 
The  same  sweet  fall  of  even, 

That  rose  on  wooded   Craigie-burn, 
And  sank  on  crystal  Devon. 

I  matched  with   Scotland's  heathery 
hills 

The  sweet-briar  and  the  clover; 
With  Ayr  and  Doon,  my  native  rills, 

Their  wood-hymns  chanting  over. 

O'er  rank  and  pomp,  as  he  had  seen, 

I  saw  the  Man  uprising; 
No   longer   common   or  unclean, 

The  child  of  God's  baptizing! 

With  clearer  eyes  I  saw  the  worth 

Of  life  among  the  lowly; 
The    Bible    at   his    Cotter's    hearth 

Had  made  my  own  more  holy. 

And  if  at  times  an  evil  strain, 
To   lawless  love  appealing, 

Broke  in  upon  the  sweet  refrain 
Of  pure  and  healthful  feeling, 

It  died  upon  the  eye  and  ear, 
No    inward   answer    gaining; 

No  heart  had  I  to  see  or  hear 
The  discord  and  the  staining. 

Let  those  who  never  erred  forget 
His  worth,  in  vain  bewailings; 

Sweet  Soul  of  Song ! — I  own  my  debt 
Uncancelled  by  his  failings! 

Lament  who  will  the  ribald  line 
Which  tells  his  lapse  from  duty, 

How   kissed   the   maddening   lips   of 

wine 
Or  wanton  ones  of  beauty; 

But  think,  while  falls  that  shade  be 
tween 

The  erring  one  and  Heaven, 
That  he  who  loved  like  Magdalen, 

Like  her  may  be  forgiven. 


Not  his   the   song  whose  thunderous 

chime 

Eternal   echoes    render, — 
The      mournful      Tuscan's      haunted 

rhyme, 
And  Milton's  starry  splendor ! 

But  who  his  human  heart  has  laid 
To    Nature's   bosom   nearer? 

Who  sweetened  toil  like  him,  or  paid 
To  love  a  tribute  dearer? 

Through    all    his    tuneful    art,    how 
strong 

The  human  feeling  gushes ! 
The  very  moonlight  of  his  song 

Is  warm  with  smiles  and  blushes! 

Give  lettered  pomp  to  teeth  of  Time, 
So  "Bonnie  Doon''  but  tarry; 

Blot  out  the  Epic's  stately  rhyme, 
But  spare  his  Highland  Mary ! 


WILLIAM  FORSTER. 

THE  years  are  many  since  his  hand 

Was  laid  upon  my  head, 
Too  weak  and  young  to  understand 

The  serious  words  he  said. 

Yet  often  now  the  good  man's  look 
Before    me    seems    to    swim, 

As  if  some  inward  feeling  took 
The  outward  guise  of  him. 

As    if,   in   passion's   heated   war, 
Or    near    temptation's    charm, 

Through  him  the  low-voiced  monitor 
Forewarned  me  of  the  harm. 

Stranger  and  pilgrim! — from  that  day 
Of  meeting,   first  and   last, 

Wherever  Duty's   pathway  lay, 
His  reverent  steps  have  passed. 

The  poor  to  feed,  the  lost  to  seek, 

To  proffer  life  to   death, 
Hope  to   the   erring, — to   the  weak 

The  strength  of  his  own  faith. 


RANTOUL. 


237 


To  plead  the  captive's  right;  remove 
The  sting  of  hate  from  Law ; 

And  soften  in  the  fire  of  love 
The  hardened  steel  of  War. 

He   walked   the   dark   world,   in  the 
mild, 

Still  guidance  of  the  Light; 
In    tearful   tenderness   a   child, 

A  strong  man  in  the  right. 

From  what  great  perils,  on  his  way, 
He   found,    in   prayer,    release ; 

Through  what  abysmal  shadows  lay 
His  pathway  unto  peace, 

God  knoweth :  we  could  only  see 
The  tranquil  strength  he  gained; 

The  bondage  lost  to  liberty, 
The  fear  in  love  unfeigned. 

And  I, — my  youthful  fancies  grown 

The  habit  of  the  man, 
Whose  field  of  life  by  angels   sown 

The  wilding  vines  o'erran, — 

Low  bowed  in  silent  gratitude, 
My  manhood's  heart  enjoys 

That  reverence  for  the  pure  and  good 
Which  blessed  the  dreaming  boy's. 

Still    shines   the   light   of  holy   lives 
Like  star-beams  over  doubt ; 

Each     sainted     memory,     Christlike, 

drives 
Some  dark  possession  out. 

O  friend  !  O  brother !  not  in  vain 
Thy  life  so  calm  and  true, 

The  silver  dropping  of  the  rain, 
The  fall  of  summer  dew ! 

How    many    burdened    hearts    have 

prayed 

Their  lives  like  thine  might  be! 
But  more  shall  pray  henceforth  for 

aid 
To  lay  them  down  like  thee. 

With  weary  hand,  yet  steadfast  will, 
In  old  age  as  in  youth, 


Thy  Master  found  thee  sowing  still 
The  good  seed  of  his  truth. 

As  on  thy  task-field  closed  the  day 

In  golden-skied  decline, 
His  angel  met  thee  on  the  way, 

And  lent  his  arm  to  thine. 

Thy  latest  care  for  man, — thy  last 
Of  earthly  thought  a  prayer, — 

O,  who  thy  mantle,  backward  cast, 
Is  worthy  now  to  wear? 

Methinks  the  mound  which  marks  thy 
bed 

Might  bless  our  land  and  save, 
As  rose,  of  old,  to  life  the  dead 

Who  touched  the  prophet's  grave! 


RANTOUL. 

ONE  day,  along  the  electric  wire 

His  manly  word  for  Freedom  sped; 
We  came  next  morn:  that  tongue  of 

fire 

Said    only,     "  He    who     spake    is 
dead!" 

Dead !  while  his  voice  was  living  yet, 
In  echoes  round  the  pillared  dome! 

Dead !  while  his  blotted  page  lay  wet 
With  themes  of  state  and  loves  of 
home! 

Dead !  in  that  crowning  grace  of  time, 
That  triumph  of  life's  zenith  hour! 
Dead!    while    we    watched   his   man 
hood's  prime 

Break    from    the    slow    bud    into 
flower ! 

Dead!  he  so  great,  and  strong,  and 

wise, 
While  the  mean  thousands  yet  drew 

breath ; 
How    deepened,   through   that   dread 

surprise. 
The  mvsterv  a«d  the  awe  of  death ! 


238 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


From   the   high   place   whereon   our 

votes 

Had  borne  him,  clear,  calm,  earn 
est,  fell 

His  first  words,  like  the  prelude  notes 
Of  some  great  anthem  yet  to  swell. 

|\Ve  seemed  to  see  our  flag  unfurled, 
Our  champion  waiting  in  his  place 

For  the  last  battle  of  the  world, — 
The  Armageddon  of  the  race. 

Through  him  we  hoped  to  speak  the 

word 

Which  wins  the  freedom  of  a  land ; 
And  lift,  for  human  right,  the  sword 
Which    dropped    from    Hampden's 
dying  hand. 

For  he  had  sat  at  Sidney's  feet, 
And  walked  with  Pym  and  Vane 

apart ; 
And,  through  the  centuries,  felt  the 

beat 

Of  Freedom's  march  in  Cromwell's 
heart. 

He  knew  the  paths  the  worthies  held, 
Where   England's  best  and  wisest 

trod; 
And,    lingering,    drank    the    springs 

that  welled 
Beneath  the  touch  of  Milton's  rod. 

No  wild  enthusiast  of  the  right, 
Self-poised   and   clear,   he   showed 
alway 

The  coolness  of  his  northern  night, 
The  ripe  repose  of  autumn's  day. 

His  steps  were  slow,  yet  forward  still 
He  pressed  where  others  paused  or 

failed; 
The  calm  star  clomb  with  constant 

will,— 

The    restless    meteor    flashed    and 
paled! 

Skilled  in  its  subtlest  wile,  he  knew 
And    owned    the    higher    ends    of 
Law; 


Still   rose  majestic  on  his  view 
The    awful    Shape    the    schoolman 
saw. 

Her    home    the    heart    of    God;    her 

voice 

The  choral  harmonies  whereby 
The  stars,  through  all  their  spheres, 

rejoice, 

The    rhythmic    rule    of    earth    and 
sky! 

We  saw  his  great  powers  misapplied 
To    poor    ambitions ;    yet,    through 

all, 

We  saw  him  take  the  weaker  side, 
And   right  the  wronged,  and  free 
the  thrall. 

Now,  looking  o'er  the  frozen  North 
For  one  like  him  in  word  and  act, 

To  call  her  old,  free  spirit  forth, 
And  give  her  faith  the  life  of  fact, — 

To  break  her  party  bonds  of  shame, 
And  labor  with  the  zeal  of  him 

To  make  the  Democratic  name 
Of  Liberty  the  synonyme^ — 

We    sweep    the    land    from    hill    to 

strand, 
We  seek  the  strong,  the  wise,  the 

brave, 

And,    sad   of  heart,   return  to    stand 
In  silence  by  a  new-made  grave ! 

There,  where  his  breezy  hills  of  home 

Look  out  upon  his  sail-white  seas, 
The    sounds    of    winds    and    waters 

come, 

And    shape    themselves    to    words 
like  these: 

"  Why,    murmuring,    mourn   that  he, 
whose  power 

Was  lent  to  Party  over-long, 
Heard  the  still  whisper  at  the  hour 

He  set  his  foot  on  Party  wrong? 

"  The  human  life  that  closed  so  well 
No  lapse  of  folly  now  can  stain; 


THE  DREAM  OF  PIO  NONO. 


The   lips   whence   Freedom's   protest 

fell 

No  meaner  thought  can  now  pro 
fane. 

"  Mightier  than  living  voice  his  grave 

That  lofty  protest  utters  o'er; 
Through    roaring   wind   and   smiting 

wave 

It  speaks  his  hate  of  wrong  once 
more. 

"Men  of  the  North!  your  weak  re 
gret 

Is  wasted  here;  arise  and  pay 
To  freedom  and  to  him  your  debt, 
By    following    where    he    led    the 
way! " 


THE    DREAM    OF    PIO    NONO. 

IT  chanced,  that    while    the  pious 

troops  of  France 
Fought    in    the    crusade    Pio    Nono 

preached, 
What  time  the  holy  Bourbons  stayed 

his  hands 
(The  Hur  and  Aaron  meet  for  such 

a  Moses), 
Stretched  forth  from  Naples  towards 

rebellious    Rome 

To  bless  the  ministry  of  Oudinot, 
And    sanctify    his    iron    homilies 
And  sharp  persuasions  of  the  bayonet, 
That  the  great  pontiff  fell  asleep,  and 

dreamed. 

He  stood  by  Lake  Tiberias,  in  the 

sun 
Of  the  bright  Orient;  and  beheld  the 

lame, 
The    sick,    and   blind,    kneel    at    the 

Master's  feet, 
And    rise    up    whole.      And,    sweetly 

over  all, 
Dropping  the  ladder  of  their  hymn 

of  praise 
From   heaven  to     earth,     in     silver 

rounds  of  song, 


He  heard  the  blessed  angels  sing  of 

peace, 
Good-will  to  man,  and  glory  to  the 

Lord. 

Then  one,   with   feet  unshod,   and 

leathern  face 
Hardened    and    darkened    by    fierce 

summer  suns 
And  hot  winds  of  the  desert,  closer 

drew 
His  fisher's  haick,  and  girded  up  his 

loins, 

And  spake,  as  one  who  had  authority : 
'  Come  thou  with  me." 


Lakeside  and  eastern  sky 
And  the  sweet  song  of  angels  passed 

away, 
And,    with    a     dream's    alacrity    of 

change, 
The  priest,  and  the  swart  fisher  by 

his  side, 
Beheld    the    Eternal    City      lift      its 

domes 
And   solemn  fanes   and  monumental 

pomp 
Above  the  waste  Campagna.    On  the 

hills 
The  blaze  of  burning  villas  rose  and 

fell, 
And    momently    the    mortar's    iron 

throat 
Roared     from     the     trenches;     and, 

within  the  walls, 
Sharp  crash  of  shells,  low  groans  of 

human  pain, 
Shout,  drum  beat,  and  the  clanging 

larum-bell, 

And  tramp  of  hosts,  sent  up  a  min 
gled  sound, 
Half  wail  and  half  defiance.    As  they 

passed 
The  gate  of  San   Pancrazio,  human 

blood 
Flowed  ankle-high  about  them,  and 

dead  men 
Choked  the  long  street  with  gashed 

and    gory    piles, — 
A  ghastly  barricade  of  mangled  flesh, 


240 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


From  which,  at  times,  quivered  a  liv 
ing  hand, 

And  white  lips  moved  and  moaned. 
A  father  tore 

His  gray  hairs,  by  the  body  of  his 
son, 

In  frenzy ;  and  his  fair  young  daugh 
ter  wept 

On  his  old  bosom.     Suddenly  a  flash 

Clove  the  thick  sulphurous  air,  and 
man  and  maid 

Sank,  crushed  and  mangled  by  the 
shattering  shell. 

Then   spake  the   Galilean:   "Thou 

hast  seen 
The  blessed  Master  and  his  works  of 

love; 
Look   now   on  thine!     Hear'st  thou 

the  angels  sing 
Above  this  open  hell?     Thou   God's 

high-priest ! 
Thou  the  Vicegerent  of  the  Prince  of 

Peace! 
Thou    the    successor    of    his    chosen 

ones ! 

I,  Peter,  fisherman  of  Galilee, 
In  the  dear  Master's  name,  and  for 

the  love 
Of   his    true    Church,   proclaim   thee 

Anti-christ, 
Alien    and    separate    from    his    holy 

faith, 
Wide  as  the  difference  between  death 

and  life, 
The  hate  of  man  and  the  great  love 

of  God! 
Hence,  and  repent!  " 

Thereat  the  pontiff  woke, 

Trembling,  and  muttering  o'er  his 
fearful  dream. 

"What  means  he?"  cried  the  Bour 
bon.  "  Nothing  more 

Than  that  your  majesty  hath  all  too 
well 

Catered  for  your  poor  guests,  and 
that,  in  sooth, 

The  Holy  Father's  supper  troubleth 
him," 

Said  Cardinal  Antonelli,  with  a  smile. 


TAULER. 

TAULER,  the  preacher,  walked,  one 
autumn  day, 

Without  the  walls  of  Strasburg,  by 
the  Rhine, 

Pondering  the  solemn  Miracle  of 
Life; 

As  one  who,  wandering  in  a  starless 
night, 

Feels,  momently,  the  jar  of  unseen 
waves, 

And  hears  the  thunder  of  an  un 
known  sea, 

Breaking  along  an  unimagined  shore. 

And    as     he    walked    he    prayed. 

Even  the  same 
Old   prayer   with   which,    for  half   a 

score  of  years, 
Morning,  and  noon,  and  evening,  lip 

and   heart 
Had  groaned :  "  Have  pity  upon  me, 

Lord! 
Thou  seest,  while  teaching  others,  I 

am  blind. 
Send  me  a  man  who  can  direct  my 

steps !  " 

Then,  as  he  mused,  he  heard  along 

his  path 
A    sound   as   of   an   old   man  s    staff 

among 
The    dry,    dead    linden-leaves;    and, 

looking  up, 
He  saw  a  stranger,  weak,  and  poor, 

and  old. 

"  Peace     be     unto     thee,     father ! " 

Tauler  said, 
"God  give  thee  a  good  day!"  The 

old  man  raised 
Slowly  his  calm  blue  eyes.    "  I  thank 

thee,  son; 
But  all  my  days  are  good,  and  none 

are  ill." 

Wondering  thereat,  the  preacher 
spake  again, 


TAULER. 


241 


"  God  give  thee  happy  life."    The  old 

man   smiled, 
"  I  never  am  unhappy." 

Tauler  laid 
His  hand  upon  the  stranger's  coarse 

gray  sleeve: 
"  Tell  me,  O  father,  what  thy  strange 

words  mean. 
Surely  man's  days  are  evil,  and  his 

life 
Sad  as  the  grave  it  leads  to."    "  Nay, 

my  son, 
Our  times  are  in  God's  hands,  and  all 

our  days 
Are  as  our  needs :  for  shadow  as  for 

sun, 
For  cold  as  heat,  for  want  as  wealth, 

alike 
Our  thanks  are  due,  since  that  is  best 

which  is ; 
And  that  which   is  not,   sharing  not 

his  life, 

Is  evil  only  as  devoid  of  good. 
And    for   the    happiness    of    which    I 

spake, 

I  find  it  in  submission  to  his  will, 
And  calm  trust  in  the  holy  Trinity 
Of    Knowledge,    Goodness,    and    Al 
mighty   Power." 


Silently     wondering,     for    a    little 

space, 
Stood  the  great  preacher;    then    he 

spake  as  one 
Who,     suddenly     grappling     with     a 

haunting  thought 
Which  long  has  followed,  whispering 

through  the  dark 
Strange   terrors,   drags   it,   shrieking, 

into   light: 
"  What    if    God's    will    consign    thee 

hence  to  Hell?" 


"  Then,"  said  the  stranger,  cheerily, 

"be  it  so. 
What  Hell  may  be  I  know  not;  this 

I  know, — 
I  cannot  lose  the  presence  of  the 

Lord: 


One  arm,  Humility,  takes  hold  upon 
His  dear  Humanity;  the  other,  Love, 
Clasps  his  Divinity.  So  where  I  go 
He  goes;  and  better  fire-walled  Hell 

with  Him 
Than  golden-gated  Paradise  without." 


Tears  sprang  in  Tauler's  eyes.     A 

sudden  light, 
Like  the  first  ray  which  fell  on  chaos, 

clove 
Apart   the   shadow    wherein   he   had 

walked 
Darkly  at  noon.    And,  as  the  strange 

old  man 
Went  his   slow  way,  until  his  silver 

hair 
Set  like  the  white  moon  where  the 

hills  of  vine 
Slope   to    the    Rhine,   he   bowed   his 

head  and  said: 
"  My  prayer  is  answered.     God  hath 

sent  the  man 

Long  sought,  to  teach  me,  by  his  sim 
ple  trust 
Wisdom  the  weary  schoolmen  never 

knew." 

So,  entering  with   a  changed  and 

cheerful  step 
The  city  gates,  he  saw,  far  down  the 

street, 
A  mighty  shadow  break  the  light  of 

noon, 
While  tracing  backward  till  its  airy 

lines 
Hardened  to  stony  plinths,  he  raised 

his  eyes 

O'er  broad  facade  and  lofty  pediment, 
O'er  architrave  and  frieze  and  sainted 

niche, 
Up  the  stone  lace-work  chiselled  by 

the  wise 
Erwin    of    Steinbach,    dizzily    up    to 

where 
In    the    noon-brightness     the     great 

Minster's  tower, 
Jewelled  with  sunbeams  on  its  mural 

crown, 


242 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Rose  like  a  visible  prayer.  "  Be 
hold!  "  he  said, 

"  The  stranger's  faith  made  plain  be 
fore  mine  eyes. 

As  yonder  tower  outstretches  to  the 
earth 

The  dark  triangle  of  its  shade  alone 

When  the  clear  day  is  shining  on  its 
top, 

So,  darkness  in  the  pathway  of  Man's 
life 

Is  but  the  shadow  of  God's  provi 
dence, 

By  the  great  Son  of  Wisdom  cast 
thereon ; 

And  what  is  dark  below  is  light  in 
Heaven." 


LINES, 

SUGGESTED  BY  READING  A  STATE  PAPER, 
WHEREIN  THE  HIGHER  LAW  IS  IN 
VOKED  TO  SUSTAIN  THE  LOWER  ONE. 

A  PIOUS  magistrate!  sound  his  praise 

throughout 
The  wondering  churches.    Who  shall 

henceforth    doubt 
That    the    long-wished    millennium 

draweth  nigh? 

Sin  in  high  places  has  become  devout, 
Tithes  mint,  goes  painful-faced,  and 

prays  its  lie 

Straight  up  to  Heaven,  and  calls  it 
piety ! 

The  pirate,  watching  from  his  bloody 

deck 

The  weltering  galleon,  heavy  with 
the  gold 

Of  Acapulco,  holding  death  in  check 
While     prayers     are     said,     brows 
crossed,  and  beads  are  told, — 

The  robber,  kneeling  where  the  way 
side  cross 

On  dark  Abruzzo  tells  of  life's  dread 
loss 

From  his  own  carbine,  glancing  still 
abroad 


For  some  new  victim,  offering  thanks 

to  God!— 
Rome,  listening  at  her  altars  to  the 

cry 
Of     midnight     Murder,     while     her 

hounds  of  hell 
Scour  France,  from  baptized  cannon 

and  holy  bell 
And  thousand-throated  priesthood, 

loud  and  high, 

•  Pealing  Te  Deums  to  the  shudder 
ing  sky, 
"  Thanks  to  the  Lord,  who  giveth 

victory!  " 
What  prove  these,  but  that  crime  was 

ne'er  so  black 
As  ghostly  cheer  and  pious  thanks  to 

lack? 
Satan  is  modest.     At  Heaven's  door 

he  lays 
His  evil  offspring,  and,  in  Scriptural 

phrase 
And  saintly  posture,  gives  to  God  the 

praise 

And  honor  of  the  monstrous  progeny. 
What  marvel,  then,  in  our  own  time 

to   see 
His     old     devices,     smoothly     acted 

o'er,— 

Official  piety,  locking  fast  the  door 
Of  Hope  against  three  million  souls 

of  men, — 

Brothers,  God's  children,  Christ's  re 
deemed, — and  then, 
With  uprolled  eyeballs  and  on  bended 

knee, 
Whining  a   prayer   for  help  to   hide 

the  key! 


THE    VOICES. 

"  WHY  urge  the  long,  unequal  fight, 
Since  truth  has  fallen  in  the  street, 

Or  lift  anew  the  trampled  light, 
Quenched  by  the  heedless  million's 
feet? 

"  Give  o'er  the  thankless  task ;  forsake 
The  fools  who  know  not  ill  from 
good; 


THE  VOICES. 


243 


Eat,  drink,  enjoy  thy  own,  and  take 
Thine  ease  among  the  multitude. 

"  Live  out  thyself ;  with  others  share 
Thy  proper  life  no  more ;  assume 

The  unconcern  of  sun  and  air, 

For    life   or    death,    or    blight    or 
bloom. 

"The  mountain  pine  looks  calmly  on 
The   fires   that   scourge   the  plains 
below, 

Nor  heeds  the  eagle  in  the  sun 
The  small  birds  piping  in  the  snow ! 

"  The  world  is  God's,  not  thine ;  let 

him 
Work  out  a  change,  if  change  must 

be: 

The  hand  that  planted  best  can  trim 
And  nurse  the  old  unfruitful  tree." 

So  spake  the  Tempter,  when  the  light 

Of  sun  and  stars  had  left  the  sky, 

I    listened,    through    the    cloud    and 

night, 

And  heard,  methought,  a  voice  re 
ply: 

"  Thy  task  may  well  seem  over-hard, 
Who  scatterest  in  a  thankless  soil 

Thy  life  as  seed,  with  no  reward 
Save  that  which  Duty  gives  to  Toil. 

"  Not  wholly  is  thy  heart  resigned 
To   Heaven's  benign  and  just  de 
cree, 

Which,  linking  thee  with  all  thy  kind, 
Transmits  their  joys  and  griefs  to 
thee. 

"  Break   off   that    sacred   chain,    and 

turn 

Back  on  thyself  thy  love  and  care; 
Be  thou  thine  own  mean  idol,  burn 
Faith,   Hope,  and  Trust,  thy  chil 
dren,  there. 

"  Released  from  that  fraternal  law 
Which  shares  the  common  bale  and 

bliss, 

No  sadder  lot  could  Folly  draw, 
Or   Sin  provoke   from   Fate,   than 
this. 


"  The  meal  unshared  is  food  unblest ; 

Thou   hoard'st   in   vain   what  love 

should  spend; 
Self-ease  is  pain;  thy  only  rest 

Is  labor  for  a  worthy  end. 

"  A  toil  that  gains  with  what  it  yields, 
And  scatters  to  its  own  increase, 

And   hears,   while    sowing    outward 

fields, 
The  harvest-song  of  inward  peace. 

"  Free-lipped    the    liberal    streamlets 

run, 
Free   shines    for   all   the   healthful 

ray; 

The  still  pool  stagnates  in  the  sun, 
The  lurid  earth-fire  haunts  decay 

"  What  is  it,  that  the  crowd  requite 
Thy  love  with  hate,  thy  truth  with 

lies? 

And  but  to  faith,  and  not  to  sight, 
The   walls    of    Freedom's    temple 
rise? 

"  Yet  do  thy  work ;  it  shall  succeed 
In  thine  or  in  another's  day; 

And,  if  denied  the  victor's  meed, 
Thou  shalt  not  lack  the  toiler's  pay. 

"  Faith  shares  the  future's  promise ; 

Love's 

.   Self-offering  is  a  triumph  won; 
And   each   good  thought    or    action 

moves 
The  dark  world  nearer  to  the  sun. 

"  Then  faint  not,  falter  not,  nor  plead 
Thy  weakness;  truth  itself  is 
strong ; 

The  lion's  strength,  the  eagle's  speed, 
Are  not  alone  vouchsafed  to  wrong. 

"  Thy  nature,  which,  through  fire  and 
flood, 

To  place  or  gain  finds  put  its  way, 
Hath  power  to  seek  the  highest  good, 

And  duty's  holiest  call  obey! 

"  Strivest    thou    in  darkness  ? — Foes 

without 

In   league    with  traitor    thoughts 
within ; 


244 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Thy  night-watch  kept  with  trembling 

Doubt 

And    pale    Remorse    the    ghost    of 
Sin?— 

"  Hast  thou   not,   on  some  week  of 

storm, 
Seen   the   sweet    Sabbath   breaking 

fair,   . 

And  cloud  and  shadow,  sunlit,  form 
The  curtains  of  its  tent  of  prayer? 

"  So,  haply,  when  thy  task  shall  end, 
The  wrong  shall  lose  itself  in  right, 

And  all  thy  week-day  darkness  blend 
With  the  long  Sabbath  of  the 
light !  " 


THE  HERO. 

"  O  FOR  a  knight  like  Bayard, 
Without  reproach  or  fear; 

My  light  glove  on  his  casque  of  steel, 
My  love-knot  on  his  spear ! 

"  O  for  the  white  plume  floating 
Sad  Zutphen's  field  above, — 

The  lion  heart  in  battle, 

The  woman's  heart  in  love ! 


"  O  that  man  once  more  were  manly, 
Woman's  pride,  and  not  her  scorn : 

That    once     more     the    pale     young 

mother 
Dared  to  boast  '  a  man  is  born  ' ! 

"  But,  now  life's  slumberous  current 
No  sun-bowed  cascade  wakes; 

No  tall,  heroic  manhood 
The   level  dulness  breaks. 

"  O  for  a  knight  like  Bayard, 
Without  reproach  or  fear! 

My  light  glove  on  his  casque  of  steel, 
My  love-knot  on  his  spear !  " 

Then  I  said,  my  own  heart  throbbing 
To  the  time  her  proud  pulse  beat, 

"  Life  hath  its  regal  natures  yet,— 
True,  tender,  brave,  and  sweet! 


"  Smile  not,  fair  unbeliever ! 

One  man,  at  least,  I  know, 
Who  might  wear  the  crest  of  Bayard 

Or  Sidney's  plume  of  snow. 

"  Once,  when  over  purple  mountains 
Died  away  the  Grecian  sun, 

And  the  far  Cyllenian  ranges 

Paled  and  darkened,  one  by  one, — 

"  Fell  the  Turk,  a  bolt  of  thunder, 
Cleaving  all  the  quiet   sky, 

And    against    his    sharp    steel    light 
nings 
Stood  the  Suliote  but  to  die. 

"  Woe  for  the  weak  and  halting ! 

The  crescent  blazed  behind 
A  curving  line  of  sabres, 

Like  fire  before  the  wind! 

"  Last  to  fly  and  first  to  rally, 
Rode  he  of  whom   I   speak, 

When,  groaning  in  his  bridle-path, 
Sank   down  a  wounded  Greek. 

"With  the  rich  Albanian  costume 
Wet  with  many  a  ghastly  stain, 

Gazing  on  earth  and  sky  as  one 
Who  might  not  gaze  again! 

"  He   looked   forward   to   the  moun 
tains, 

Back  on  foes  that  never  spare, 
Then  flung  him  from  his  saddle, 

And  placed  the  stranger  there. 

"  '  Allah  !  hu ! '    Through  flashing  sa 
bres, 

Through  a  stormy  hail  of  lead, 
The  good  Thessalian  charger 

Up  the  slopes  of  olives  sped. 

"  Hot  spurred  the  turbaned  riders ; 

He  almost  felt  their  breath, 
Where     a     mountain    stream    rolled 

darkly  down 
Between  the  hills  and  death. 

"  One  brave  and  manful  struggle, — 
He  gained  the  solid  land, 


MY  DREAM. 


245 


And  the  cover  of  the  mountains, 
And  the  carbines  of  his  band !  " 


"  It  was  very  great  and  noble," 
Said  the  moist-eyed  listener  then, 

"  But  one  brave  deed  makes  no  hero ; 
Tell  me  what  he  since  hath  been !  " 


"  Still  a  brave  and  generous  manhood, 
Still  an   honor  without  stain, 

In  the  prison  of  the  Kaiser, 
By  the  barricades  of  Seine. 


"  But  dream  not  helm  and  harness 

The  sign  of  valor  true ; 
Peace  hath  higher  tests  of  manhood 

Than  battle  ever  knew. 


"  Wouldst  know  him  now  ?      Behold 
him, 

The  Cadmus  of  the  blind, 
Giving  the  dumb  lip  language, 

The  idiot  clay  a  mind. 

"  Walking  his   round  of  duty 

Serenely  day  by  day, 
With  the  strong  man's  hand  of  labor 

And  childhood's  heart  of  play. 

"  True  as  the  knights  of  story, 
Sir  Lancelot  and  his  peers, 

Brave  in  his  calm  endurance 
As  they  in  tilt  of  spears. 

"As  waves  in  stillest  waters, 
As  stars  in  noonday  skies, 

All  that  wakes  to  noble  action 
In  his  noon  of  calmness  lies. 

"  Wherever  outraged  Nature 
Asks  word  or  action  brave, 

Wherever  struggles  labor, 
Wherever  groans  a  slave, — 

"  Wherever  rise  the  peoples, 

Wherever  sink  a  throne, 
The  throbbing  heart  of  Freedom  finds 

An  answer  in  his  own. 


"  Knight  of  a  better  era, 
Without  reproach  or   fear! 

Said  I  not  well  that  Bayards 
And  Sidneys  still  are  here?" 


MY  DREAM. 

IN  my  dream,  methought  I  trod, 
Yesternight,  a  mountain  road ; 
Narrow  as  Al  Sirat's  span, 
High  as  eagle's  flight,  it  ran. 

Overhead,  a  roof  of  cloud 
With   its  weight  of  thunder  bowed; 
Underneath,  to   left  and  right. 
Blankness  and  abysmal  night. 

Here  and  there  a  wild-flower  blushed, 
Now  and  then  a  bird-song  gushed; 
Now  and  then,  through  rifts  of  shade, 
Stars  sho^e  out,  and  sunbeams  played. 

But  the  goodly   company, 
Walking  in  that  path  with  me, 
One  by  one  the  brink  o'erslid, 
One  by  one  the  darkness  hid. 

Some  with  waging  and  lament, 
Some  with  cheerful  courage  went; 
But,  of  all  who  smiled  or  moarned, 
Never  one  to  us  returned. 

Anxiously,  with  eye  and  ear, 
Questioning  that  shadow  drear, 
Never  hand  in  token  stirred, 
Never  answering  voice  I  heard ! 

Steeper,  darker  !—lo  !  I  felt 
From  my  feet  the  pathway  melt. 
Swallowed  by  the  black  despair, 
And  the  hungry  jaws  of  air, 

Past  the  stony-throated  caves 
Strangled  by  the  wash  of  waves, 
Past  the  splintered  crags,  I  sank 
On  a  green  and  flowery  bank, — 

Soft   as    fall   of   thistle-down, 
Lightly  as  a  cloud  is  blown, 


246 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Soothingly  as  cjiildhood  pressed 
To  the  bosom  of  its  rest. 

Of  the  sharp-horned  rocks  instead, 
Green  the  grassy  meadows  spread, 
Bright  with  waters  singing  by 
Trees  that  propped  a  golden  sky. 

Painless,  trustful,  sorrow-free, 
Old  lost  faces  welcomed  me, 
With  whose  sweetness  of  content 
Still  expectant  hope  was  blent. 

Waking  while  the  dawning  gray 
Slowly  brightened  into  day, 
Pondering  that  vision  fled, 
Thus  unto  myself  I  said : —     , 

"  Steep,    and    hung    with    clouds    of 

strife, 

Is  our  narrow  path  of  life; 
And  our  death  the  dreaded  fall 
Through  the  dark,  awaiting  all. 

"  So,  with  painful  steps  we  climb 
Up  the  dizzy  ways  of  time, 
Ever  in  the  shadow  shed 
By  the  forecast  of  our  dread. 

"  Dread  of  mystery  solved  alone, 
Of  the  untried  and  unknown; 
Yet  the  end  thereof  may  seem 
Like  the  falling  of  my  dream. 

"  And  this  heart-consuming  care, 
All  our  fears  of  here  or  there, 
Change  and  absence,  loss  and  death, 
Prove  but  simple  lack  of  faith." 

Thou,  O  Most  Compassionate! 
Who  didst  stoop  to  our  estate, 
Drinking  of  the  cup  we  drain, 
Treading  in  our  path  of  pain, — 

Through  the  doubt  and  mystery, 
Grant  to  us  thy  steps  to  see, 
And  the  grace  to  draw  from  thence 
Larger  hope  and   confidence. 

Show  thy  vacant  tomb,  and  let, 
As  of  old,  the  angels  sit, 


Whispering,  by  its  open  door : 

"  Fear  not !     He  hath  gone  before  ! 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 

BLESSINGS  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan ! 
With   thy   turned-up   pantaloons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill; 
With  the   sunshine  on  thy  face, 
Through     thy     torn    brim's     jaunty 

grace ; 

From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy, — 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy ! 
Prince  thou  art, — the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican. 
Let  the  million-dollared  ride ! 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 
Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye, — 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy: 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy! 

O  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of   fowl   and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  groundnut  trails  its  vine, 
Where     the     wood-grape's     clusters 

shine ; 

Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans ! — 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks; 
Hand  in.  hand  with  her  he  walks, 


FLOWERS  IN  WINTER. 


247 


Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy, — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy! 

O   for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding   years   in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees ; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone ; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through    the    day   and    through   the 

night, 

Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes   beyond, 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides! 
Still  as  my  horizon  grew, 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too  ; 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy! 

O  for  festal  dainties  spread, 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread, — 
Pewter   spoon   and  bowl   of  wood, 
On   the   door-stone,   gray   and   rude ! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold, 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch:  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy! 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 
Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can! 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew; 


Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat : 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 
Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 
Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil: 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never    on   forbidden   ground ; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah!  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy! 


FLOWERS  IN   WINTER. 

PAINTED    UPON    A    PORTE    LIVRE. 

How  strange  to  greet,  this  frosty 
morn, 

In  graceful  counterfeit  of  flowers, 
These  children  of  the  meadows,  born 

Of  sunshine  and  of  showers ! 

How  well  the  conscious  wood  retains 
The   pictures    of    its    flower-sown 

home, — • 
The    lights    and    shades,    the    purple 

stains, 
And  golden  hues  of  bloom! 

b 

It  was  a  happy  thought  to  bring 
To  the  dark  season's  frost  and  rime 

This  painted  memory  of  spring, 
This  dream  of  summer-time. 

Our  hearts  are  lighter  for  its  sake, 
Our  fancy's  age  renews  its  youth, 

And  dim-remembered  fictions  take 
The  guise  of  present  truth 

A  wizard  of  the  Merrimack, — 
So  old  ancestral  legends  say, — 

Could  call    green    leaf    and    blossom 

back 
To  frosted  stem  and  spray. 


248 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


The  dry  logs  of  the  cottage  wall, 
Beneath    his    touch,    put    out    their 
leaves ; 

The  clay-bound   swallow,  at  his  call, 
Played  round  the  icy  eaves. 

The  settler  saw  his  oaken  flail 

Take    bud,    and   bloom    before    his 
eyes; 

From  frozen  pools  he  saw  the  pale, 
Sweet  summer  lilies  rise. 

To    their    old    homes,    by    man    pro 
faned, 

Came  the  sad  dryads,  exiled  long, 
And  through  their  leafy  tongues  com 
plained 
Of  household  use  and  wrong. 

The  beechen  platter  sprouted  wild, 
The     pipkin     wore      its      old-time 
green ; 

The  cradle  o'er  the  sleeping  child 
Became  a  leafy  screen. 

Haply  our  gentle  friend  hath  met, 
While    wandering    in    her    sylvan 
quest. 

Haunting  his  native  woodlands  yet, 
That  Druid  of  the  West  ;— 

And,    while    the    dew    on    leaf     and 

flower 
Glistened    in    moonlight    clear    and 

still, 
Learned  the   dusk  wizard's    spell   of 

power, 
And  caught  his  trick  of  skill. 

But  welcome,  be  it  new  or  old, 
The  gift  which  makes  the  day  more 
bright, 

And  paints,  upon  the  ground  of  cold 
And   darkness,  warmth   and    light ! 

Without  is  neither  gold  nor  green; 

Within,    for    birds,    the    birch-logs 

sing; 
Yet,  summer-like,  we  sit  between 

The  autumn  and  the  spring. 


The  one,  with  bridal  blush  of  rose, 
And   sweetest  breath  of  woodland 
balm, 

And  one  whose  matron  lips  unclose 
In  smiles  of  saintly  calm. 

Fill  soft  and  deep,  O  winter   snow! 

The  sweet  azalia's  oaken  dells, 
And  hide  the  bank  where  roses  blow, 

And  swing  the  azure  bells! 

O'erlay  the  amber  violet's  leaves, 
The  purple  aster's  brookside  home, 

Guard  all  the  flowers  her  pencil  gives, 
A  life  beyond  their  bloom. 

And  she,  when  spring  comes  round 
again, 

By  greening  slope  and  singing  flood 
Shall  wander,  seeking,  not  in  vain, 

Her  darlings  of  the  wood. 


THE  RENDITION. 

I  HEARD  the  train's  shrill  whistle  call, 
I  saw  an  earnest  look  beseech, 
And  rather  by  that  look  than  speech 

My  neighbor  told  me  all. 

And,  as  I  thought  of  Liberty 

Marched    hand-cuffed     down     that 

sworded  street, 
The  solid  earth  beneath  my  feet 

Reeled  fluid  as  the  sea. 

I  felt  a  sense  of  bitter  loss,— 

Shame,   tearless   grief,   and    stifling 

wrath, 
And  loathing  fear,  as  if  my  path 

A  serpent  stretched  across. 

All  love  of  home,  all  pride  of  place, 
All  generous  confidence  and  trust, 
Sank  smothering  in  that  deep  dis 
gust 

And  anguish  of  disgrace. 


THE  FRUIT-GIFT. 


Down  on  my  native  hills  of  June, 
And  home's  green  quiet,  hiding  all, 
Fell  sudden  darkness  like  the  fall 

Of  midnight  upon  noon ! 

And  Law,  an  unloosed  maniac,  strong, 
Blood-drunken,  through  the  black 
ness  trod, 
Hoarse-shouting  in  the  ear  of  God 

The  blasphemy  of  wrong. 

"O     Mother,     from     thy     memories 

proud, 

Thy  old  renown,    dear    Common 
wealth, 
Lend    this    dead    air    a    breeze    of 

health, 
And  smite  with  stars  this  cloud. 

"  Mother  of  Freedom,  wise  and  brave, 
Rise  awful  in  thy  strength,"  I  said ; 
Ah  me !  I  spake  but  to  the  dead ; 

I  stood  upon  her  grave ! 

6th  mo.,  1854. 


LINES, 

ON  THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  BILL  TO  PRO 
TECT  THE  RIGHTS  AND  LIBERTIES  OF 
THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  STATE  AGAINST 
THE  FUGITIVE  SLAVE  ACT. 

I  SAID  I  stood  upon  thy  grave, 
My   Mother    State,   when   last   the 

moon 
Of   blossoms   clomb    the    skies    of 

June. 

And,  scattering  ashes  on  my  head, 
I  wore,  undreaming  of  relief, 
The   sackcloth    of  thy    shame   and 
grief. 

Again  that  moon  of  blossoms  shines 
On  leaf  and  flower  and  folded 

wing, 
And    thou    hast    risen     with     the 

spring ! 


Once  more  thy  strong  maternal  arms 
Are     round     about     thy     children 

flung, — 
A  lioness  that  guards  her  young! 

No  threat  is  on  thy  closed  lips, 
But  in  thine  eye  a  power  to  smite 
The  mad  wolf  backward  from  its 
light. 

Southward  the  baffled  robber's  track 
Henceforth  runs  only;  hereaway, 
The  fell  lycanthrope  finds  no  prey. 

Henceforth,  within  thy  sacred  gates, 
His  first  low  howl  shall  downward 

draw 
The  thunder  of  thy  righteous  law. 

Not  mindless  of  thy  trade  and  gain, 
But,  acting  on   the  wiser  plan, 
Thou  'rt     grown     conservative    of 
man. 

So    shalt   thou   clothe   with   life   the 

hope, 

Dream-painted  on  the  sightless  eyes 
Of  him  who  sang  of  Paradise, — 

The  vision  of  a  Christian  man, 
In  virtue  as  in  stature  great, 
Embodied  in  a  Christian  State. 

And  thou,  amidst  thy  sisterhood 
Forbearing  long,  yet  standing  fast, 
Shalt  win  their  grateful  thanks  at 
last; 

When  North  and  South  shall  strive 

no  more, 
And  all   their  feuds  and  fears  be 

lost 

In  Freedom's  holy  Pentecost. 
6th  mo.,  1855. 


THE  FRUIT-GIFT. 

LAST  night,  just  as  the  tints  of  au 
tumn's  sky 

Of  sunset  faded  from  our  hills  and 
streams, 


250 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


I    sat,    vague    listening,    lapped    in 
twilights  dreams, 

To  the  leaf's  rustle,  and  the  cricket's 
cry. 

Then,    like    that   basket,    flush     with 
summer   fruit, 

Dropped  by  the  angels  at  the  Proph 
et's  foot, 

Came,  unannounced,  a  gift  of   clus 
tered  sweetness, 

Full-orbed,   and   glowing   with   the 
prisoned  beams 

Of  summery  suns,  and,   rounded  to 
completeness 

By  kisses  of  the  south-wind  and  the 
dew. 

Thrilled   with   a   glad .  surprise,   me- 
thought   I  knew 

The  pleasure  of  the  homeward-turn 
ing  Jew, 

When  Eschol's  clusters  on  his  shoul 
ders  lay, 

Dropping    their    sweetness    on     his 
desert  way. 


I  said,  "  This  fruit  beseems  no  world 

of  sin. 

Its  parent  vine,  rooted  in  Paradise, 
O'ercrept  the  wall,  and  never  paid 

the  price 
Of  the  great  mischief, — an  ambrosial 

tree, 

Eden's  exotic,  somehow  smuggled  in. 
To    keep    the    thorns    and    thistles 

company." 
Perchance     our     frail,     sad    mother 

plucked  in  haste 
A  single  vine-slip  as  she  passed  the 

gate, 
Where   the   dread     sword,    alternate 

paled  and  burned, 
And   the    stern    angel,    pitying   her 

fate, 
Forgave    the    lovely    trespasser,    and 

turned 
Aside  his  face  of  fire;  and  thus  the 

waste 

And  fallen  world  hath  yet  its  annual 
taste 


Of  primal  good,  to  prove  of  sin  the 

cost, 
And    show   by   one   gleaned   ear   the 

mighty  harvest  lost. 


A   MEMORY. 

HERE,   while    the    loom    of    Winter 

weaves 

The  shroud  of  flowers  and  foun 
tains, 

I  think  of  thee  and  summer  eves 
Among  the  Northern  mountains. 

When  thunder  tolled  the  twilight's 
close, 

And  winds  the  lake  were  rude  on, 
And  thou  wert  singing,  Ca'  the  Yoivcs, 

The  bonny  yowes  of  Cluden ! 

When,    close     and     closer,     hushing 

breath, 

Our  circle  narrowed  round  thee, 
And   smiles   and  tears   made   up   the 

wreath 

Wherewith    our     silence    crowned 
thee; 

And,  strangers  all,  we  felt  the  ties 
Of  sisters  and  of  brothers ; 

Ah !  whose  of  all  those  kindly  eyes 
Now  smile  upon  another's? 

The  sport  of  Time,  who  still  apart 
The  waifs  of  life  is  flinging; 

O,  nevermore  shall  heart  to  heart 
Draw  nearer  for  that  singing! 

Yet  when  the  panes  are  frosty- 
starred, 

And  twilight's  fire  is  gleaming, 
I  hear  the  songs  of  Scotland's  bard 
Sound   softly   through   my   dream 
ing! 

A  song  that  lends  to  winter  snows 
The  glow  of  summer  weather, — 

Again  I  hear  thee  ca'  the  yowes 
To  Cluden's  hills  of  heather! 


THE  KANSAS  EMIGRANTS. 


251 


TO.  C.   S. 

IF   I    have   seemed  more   prompt  to 

censure  wrong 
Than  praise  the  right;  if  seldom  to 

thine  ear 
My  voice   hath  mingled    with   the 

exultant  cheer 
Borne  upon  all  our  Northern  winds 

along ; 
If   I   have   failed   to  join    the   fickle 

throng 
In  wide-eyed  wonder,  that  thou  stand- 

est  strong 

In  victory,  surprised  in  thee  to  find 
Brougham's     scathing     power     with 

Canning's  grace  combined; 
That    he,    for     whom     the     ninefold 

Muses  sang, 

From  their  twined  arms  a  giant  ath 
lete  sprang, 
Barbing   the  arrows    of    his    native 

tongue 
With  the  spent  shafts  Latona's  archer 

flung, 
To  smite  the  Python  of  our  land  and 

time, 
Fell  as  the  monster  born  of  Crissa's 

slime, 
Like  the  blind  bard  who  in  Castalian 

springs 
Tempered  the  steel    that    clove    the 

crest  of  kings, 

And  on  the  shrine  of  England's  free 
dom  laid 
The  gifts  of  Cumze  and  of  Delphi's 

shade, — 
Small   need   hast   thou  of  words  of 

praise  from  me. 
Thou     knowest     my     heart,     dear 

friend,  and  well  canst  guess 
That,  even  though  silent,  I  have  not 

the  less 

Rejoiced  to  see  thy  actual  life  agree 
With  the  large  future  which  I  shaped 

for  thee, 
When,  years  ago,  -beside  the  summer 

sea, 


White  in  the  moon,  we  saw  the  long 
waves  fall 

Baffled  and   broken   from   the  rocky 
wall, 

That,  to  the  menace  of  the  brawling 
flood, 

Opposed  alone  its  massive  quietude, 

Calm  as  a  fate ;  with  not  a  leaf  nor 
vine 

Nor  birch-spray  trembling  in  the  still 
moonshine, 

Crowning  it  like  God's  peace.  I  some 
times  think 

That  night-scene  by  the   sea  pro 
phetical, — 

(For  Nature  speaks  in  symbols  and 
in  signs, 

And  through  her  pictures  human  fate 
divines), — 

That   rock,    wherefrom   we   saw   the 

billows  sink 

In  murmuring  rout,  uprising  clear 
and  tall 

In  the  white  light  of  heaven,  the  type 
of  one 

Who,  momently  by  Error's  hosts  as 
sailed, 

Stands  strong  as  Truth,  in  greaves  of 

granite  mailed ; 

And,  tranquil-fronted,  listening  over 
all 

The    tumult,    hears    the    angels    say. 
Well  done! 


THE  KANSAS  EMIGRANTS. 

WE  cross  the  prairie  as  of  old 
The  pilgrims  crossed  the  sea, 

To  make  the  West,  as  they  the  East, 
The  homestead  of  the  free ! 

We  go  to  rear  a  wall  of  men 
On  Freedom's  southern   line, 

And  plant  beside  the  cotton-tree 
The  rugged  Northern  pine! 

We  're  flowing  from  our  native  hills 

As  our  free  rivers  flow; 
The  blessing  of  our  Mother-land 

Is  on  us  as  we  go. 


252 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


We  go  to  plant  her  common  schools 

On  distant  prairie  swells, 
And  give  the  Sabbaths  of  the  wild 

The  music  of  her  bells. 

Upbearing,  like  the  Ark  of  old, 

The  Bible  in  our  van, 
We  go  to  test  the  truth  of  God 

Against  the  fraud  of  man. 

No  pause,  nor  rest,  save  where  the 
streams 

That  feed  the  Kansas  run, 
Save  where  our  Pilgrim  gonfalon 

Shall  flout  the  setting  sun! 

We'll  tread  the  prairie  as  of  old 
Our  fathers  sailed  the  sea, 

And  make  the  West,  as  they  the  East, 
The  homestead  of  the  free ! 


SONG  OF  SLAVES  IN  THE 
DESERT. 

WHERE  are  we  going?  where  are  we 

going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee? 

Lord  of  peoples,  lord  of  lands, 
Look  across  these  shining  sands, 
Through  the  furnace  of  the  noon, 
Through  the  white  light  of  the  moon. 
Strong  the  Ghiblee  wind  is  blowing, 
Strange  and  large  the  world  is  grow 
ing! 

Speak  ?.nd  tell  us  where  we  are  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee? 

Bornou  land  was  rich  and  good, 
Wells  of  water,  fields  of  food, 
Dourra  fields,  and  bloom  of  bean, 
And  the   palm-tree   cool   and  green: 
Bornou  land  we  see  no  longer, 
Here  we  thirst  and  here  we  hunger, 
Here  the  Moor-man  smites  in  anger : 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee? 

When  we  went  from  Bornou  land, 
We  were  like  the  leaves  and  sand, 


We  were  many,  we  are  few; 
Life  has  one,  and  death  has  two : 
Whitened  bones  our  path  are  show 
ing, 

Thou   All-seeing,   thou  All-knowing ! 
Hear  us,  tell  us,  where  are  we  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee? 

Moons  of  marches  from  our  eyes 
Bornou  land  behind  us  lies ; 
Stranger  round  us  day  by  day 
Bends  the  desert  circle  gray; 
Wild  the  waves  of  sand  are  flowing, 
Hot  the  winds  above  them  blowing, — 
Lord   of  all   things ! — where  are   we 

going? 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee? 

We  are  weak,  but  Thou  art  strong; 

Short  our  lives,  but  Thine  is  long; 

We  are  blind,  but  Thou  hast  eyes; 

We  are  fools,  but  Thou  art  wise! 

Thou,  our  morrow's  pathway  know 
ing 

Through  the  strange  world  round  us 
growing, 

Hear  us,  tell  us  where  are  we  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee? 


LINES, 

INSCRIBED  TO  FRIENDS  UNDER  ARREST 
FOR  TREASON  AGAINST  THE  SLAVE 
POWER. 

THE    age    is    dull   and   mean.      Men 

creep, 
Not  walk;  with  blood  too  pale  and 

tame 

To  pay  the  debt  they  owe  to  shame ; 
Buy  cheap,  sell  dear;  eat,  drink,  and 

sleep 
Down-pillowed,    deaf    to    moaning 

want ; 

Pay  tithes  for  soul-insurance;  keep 
Six  days  to  Mammon,  one  to  Cant. 


THE  NEW  EXODUS. 


253 


In  such  a  time,  give  thanks  to  God, 
That  somewhat  of  the  holy  rage 
With   which   the  prophets   in  their 
age 

On  all  its  decent  seemings  trod, 
Has  set  your  feet  upon  the  lie, 

That  man  and  ox  and  soul  and  clod 
Are  market  stock  to  sell  and  buy! 

The   hot  words   from  your   lips,   my 

own, 

To  caution  trained,  might  not   re 
peat; 

But  if  some  tares  among  the  wheat 
Of  generous  thought  and  deed  were 

sown, 
No  common  wrong  provoked  your 

zeal; 

The  silken  gauntlet  that  is  thrown 
In  such  a  quarrel  rings  like  steel. 

The  brave  old  strife  the  fathers  saw 
For  Freedom  calls  for  men  again 
Like  those  who  battled  not  in  vain 

For  England's  Charter,  Alfred's  law; 
And  right  of  speech  and  trial  just 

Wage  in  your  name  their  ancient  war 
With    venal    courts     and    perjured 
trust. 

God's  ways  seem  dark,  but,  soon  or 

late, 

They  touch  the  shining  hills  of  day; 
The  evil  cannot  brook  delay, 
The  good  can  well  afford  to  wait. 
Give  ermined  knaves  their  hour  of 

crime; 

Ye  have  the  future  grand  and  great, 
The  safe  appeal  of  Truth  to  Time! 


THE  NEW  EXODUS. 

BY  fire  and  cloud,  across  the  desert 

sand, 

And  through  the  parted  waves, 
From    their    long   bondage,    with    an 

outstretched  hand, 
God  led  the  Hebrew  slaves ! 


Dead    as    the    letter    of    the    Penta 
teuch, 

As  Egypt's  statues  cold, 
In  the  adytum  of  the  sacred  book 

Now  stands  that  marvel  old. 


"  Lo,  God  is  great !  "  the  simple  Mos 
lem  says. 

We  seek  the  ancient  date, 
Turn  the  dry  scroll,  and  make  that 

living  phrase 
A  dead  one  :  "  God  was  great !  " 

And,     like    the     Coptic     monks     by 

Mousa's  wells, 

We  dream  of  wonders  past, 
Vague    as    the    tales    the    windering 

Arab  tells, 
>Each  drowsier  than  the  last. 


O  fools  and  blind !    Above  the  Pyra 
mids 

Stretches  once  more  that  hand, 
And  tranced   Egypt,  from  her  stony 

lids, 
Flings  back  her  veil  of  sand. 

And  morning-smitten  Memnon,  sing 
ing,  wakes; 

And,  listening  by  his  Nile, 
O'er  Ammon's  grave  and  awful  vis 
age  breaks 
A  sweet  and  human  smile. 


Not  as  before,  with  hail  and  fire,  and 

call 

Of  death  for  midnight  graves, 
But   in  the  stillness  of  the  noonday, 

fall 
The  fetters  of  the  slaves. 

No  longer  through  the  Red  Sea,  as 

of  old, 

The  bondmen  walk  dry  shod; 
Through    human   hearts,   by   love   of 

Him   controlled, 
Runs  now  that  path  of  God! 


254 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  HASCHISH. 

OF  all  that  Orient  lands  can  vaunt 
Of  marvels  with  our  own  compet 
ing, 

The  strangest  is  the  Haschish  plant, 
And  what  will  follow  on  its  eating. 

What  pictures  to  the  taster  rise, 
Of  Dervish  or  of  Almeh  dances ! 

Of  Eblis,  or  of  Paradise, 
Set  all  aglow  with  Houri  glances! 

The  poppy  visions  of  Cathay, 
The  heavy  beer-trance  of  the  Sua- 
bian; 

The  wizard  lights  and  demon  play 
Of  nights  Walpurgis  and  Arabian! 

The  Mollah  and  the  Christian  dog 
Change  place  in  mad  metempsycho 
sis  ; 

The  Muezzin  climbs  the  synagogue, 
The   Rabbi   shakes     his    beard    at 
Moses ! 

The  Arab  by  his  desert  well 

Sits  choosing  from  some  Caliph's 

daughters, 

And  hears  his  single  camel's  bell 
Sound  welcome  to  his  regal  quar 
ters. 

The  Koran's  reader  makes  complaint 
Of  Shitan  dancing  on  and  off  it ; 

The  robber  offers  alms,  the  saint 
Drinks  Tokay  and  blasphemes  the 
Prophet. 


Such     scenes     that     Eastern     plant 

awakes ; 

But  we  have  one  ordained  to  beat  it, 
The    Haschish    of   the    West,    which 

makes 

Or  fools  or  knaves  of  all  who  eat 
it. 

The  preacher  eats,  and  straight  ap 
pears 

His  Bible  in  a  new  translation; 
Its  angels  negro   overseers, 
And  Heaven  itself  a  snug  planta 
tion! 

The    man    of    peace,     about     whose 

dreams 

The  sweet  millennial  angels  cluster, 
Tastes  the  mad  weed,  and  plots  and 

schemes, 
A  raving  Cuban  filibuster! 

The  noisiest  Democrat,  with  ease, 

It  turns  to  Slavery's  parish  beadle; 
The    shrewdest    statesman   eats     and 

sees 

Due    southward    point    the    polar 
needle. 

The  Judge  partakes,  and  sits  erelong 
Upon    his    bench    a    railing   black 
guard  ; 

Decides  off-hand  that  right  is  wrong, 
And  reads  the  ten  commandments 
backward. 

O  potent  plant!  so  rare  a  taste 
Has  never  Turk  or  Gentoo  gotten; 

The  hempen  Haschish  of  the  East 
Is  powerless  to  our  Western  Cot 
ton! 


MARY  GARVIN.  255 


BALLADS. 

MARY  GARVIN. 

FROM  the  heart  of  Waumbek  Methna,  from  the  lake  that  never  fails, 
Falls  the  Saco  in  the  green  lap  of  Conway's  intervales; 
There,  in  wild  and  virgin  freshness,  its  waters  foam  and  flow, 
As  when  Darby  Field  first  saw  them,  two  hundred  years  ago. 

But,  vexed  in  all  its  seaward  course  with  bridges,  dams,  and  mills, 
How  changed  is  Saco's  stream,  how  lost  its  freedom  of  the  hills, 
Since  travelled  Jocelyn,  factor  Vines,  and  stately  Champernoon 
Heard  on  its  banks  the  gray  wolf's  howl,  the  trumpet  of  the  loon! 

With  smoking  axle  hot  with  speed,  with  steeds  of  fire  and  steam, 
Wide-waked  To-day  leaves  Yesterday  behind  him  like  a  dream. 
Still,  from  the  hurrying  train  of  Life,  fly  backward  far  and  fast 
The  milestones  of  the  fathers,  the  landmarks  of  the  past. 

But  human  hearts  remain  unchanged:  the  sorrow  and  the  sin, 
The  loves  and  hopes  and  fears  of  old,  are  to  our  own  akin; 
And,  in  the  tales  our  fathers  told,  the  songs  our  mothers  sung, 
Tradition,  snowy-bearded,  leans  on  Romance,  ever  young. 

O  sharp-lined  man  of  traffic,  on  Saco's  banks  to-day ! 
O  mill-girl  watching  late  and  long  the  shuttle's  restless  play ! 
Let,  for  the  once,  a  listening  ear  the  working  hand  beguile, 
And  lend  my  old  Provincial  tale,  as  suits,  a  tear  or  smile ! 


The  evening  gun  had  sounded  from  gray  Fort  Mary's  walls; 

Through  the  forest,  like  a  wild  beast,  roared  and  plunged  the  Saco's  falls. 

And  westward  on  the  sea-wind,  that  damp  and  gusty  grew, 
Over  cedars  darkening  inland  the  smokes  of  Spurwink  blew. 

On  the  hearth  of  Farmer  Garvin  blazed  the  crackling  walnut  log; 
Right  and  left  sat  dame  and  goodman,  and  between  them  lay  the  dog, 

Head  on  paws,  and  tail  slow  wagging,  and  beside  him  on  her  mat, 
Sitting  drowsy  in  the  fire-light,  winked  and  purred  the  mottled  cat. 

"  Twenty  years !  "  said  Goodman  Garvin,  speaking  sadly,  tinder  breath, 
And  his  gray  head  slowly  shaking,  as  one  who  speaks  of  death. 

The  goodwife  dropped  her  needles :  "  It  is  twenty  years,  to-day, 
Since  the  Indians  fell  on  Saco,  and  stole  our  child  away." 


256  BALLADS. 


Then  they  sank  into  the  silence,  for  each  knew  the  other's  thought, 
Of  a  great  and  common  sorrow,  and  words  were  needed  not. 

"  Who  knocks  ?  "  cried  Goodman  Garvin.    The  door  was  open  thrown ; 

On  two  strangers,  man  and  maiden,  cloaked  and  furred,  the  fire-light  shone. 

One  with  courteous  gesture  lifted  the  bear-skin  from  his  head ; 
"  Lives  here  Elkanah  Garvin?  "     "  I  am  he,"  the  goodman  said. 

"  Sit  ye  down,  and  dry  and  warm  ye,  for  the  night  is  chill  with  rain." 
And  the  goodwife  drew  the  settle,  and  stirred  the  fire  amain. 

The  maid  unclasped  her  cloak-hood,  the  fire-light  glistened  fair 
In  her  large,  moist  eyes,  and  over  soft  folds  of  dark  brown  hair. 

Dame  Garvin  looked  upon  her :    "  It  is  Mary's  self  I  see ! 

Dear  heart!  "  she  cried,  "now  tell  me,  has  my  child  come  back  to  me?" 

"  My  name  indeed  is  Mary,"  said  the  stranger,  sobbing  wild ; 
"Will  you  be  to  me  a  mother?     I  am  Mary  Garvin' s  child! 

"  She  sleeps  by  wooded  Simcoe,  but  on  her  dying  day 
She  bade  my  father  take  me  to  her  kinsfolk  far  away. 

"  And  when  the  priest  besought  her  to  do  me  no  such  wrong, 
She  said,  '  May  God  forgive  me !  I  have  closed  my  heart  too  long. 

" '  When  I  hid  me  from  my  father,  and  shut  out  my  mother's  call, 
I  sinned  against  those  dear  ones,  and  the  Father  of  us  all. 

" '  Christ's  love  rebukes  no  home-love,  breaks  no  tie  of  kin  apart ; 
Better  heresy  in  doctrine,  than  heresy  of  heart. 

" '  Tell  me  not  the  Church  must  censure :  she  who  wept  the  Cross  beside 
Never  made  her  own  flesh  strangers,  nor  the  claims  of  blood  denied ; 

" '  And  if  she  who  wronged  her  parents,  with  her  child  atones  to  them, 
Earthly  daughter,  Heavenly  mother !  thou  at  least  wilt  not  condemn ! ' 

"  So,  upon  her  death-bed  lying,  my  blessed  mother  spake ; 
As  we  come  to  do  her  bidding,  so  receive  us  for  her  sake." 

"  God  be  praised !  "  said  Goodwife  Garvin,  "  He  taketh,  and  he  gives ; 
He  woundeth,  but  he  healeth ;  in  her  child  our  daughter  lives !  " 

"  Amen !  "  the  old  man  answered,  as  he  brushed  a  tear  away, 

And,  kneeling  by  his  hearthstone,  said,  with  reverence,  "  Let  us  pray." 


MARY  GARVIN.  257 


All  its  Oriental  symbols,  and  its  Hebrew  paraphrase, 

Warm  with  earnest  life  and  feeling,  rose  his  prayer  of  love  and  praise. 

But  he  started  at  beholding,  as  he  rose  from  off  his  knee, 
The  stranger  cross  his  forehead  with  the  sign  of  Papistrie. 

"What  is  this?"  cried  Farmer  Garvin.    "Is  an  English  Christian's  home 
A  chapel  or  a  mass-house,  that  you  make  the  sign  of  Rome?  " 

Then  the  young  girl  knelt  beside  him,  kissed  his  trembling  hand,  and  cried : 
"  O,  forbear  to  chide  my  father ;  in  that  faith  my  mother  died ! 

"  On  her  wooden  cross  at  Simcoe  the  dews  and  sunshine  fall, 

As  they  fall  on  Spurwink's  graveyard ;  and  the  dear  God  watches  all !  " 

The  old  man  stroked  the  fair  head  that  rested  on  his  knee ; 

"  Your  words,  dear  child,"  he  answered,  "  are  God's  rebuke  to  me. 

"  Creed  and  rite  perchance  may  differ,  yet  our  faith  and  hope  be  one. 
Let  me  be  your  father's  father,  let  him  be  to  me  a  son." 

When  the  horn,  on  Sabbath  morning,  through  the  still  and  frosty  air, 
From  Spurwink,  Pool,  and  Black  Point,  called  to  sermon  and  to  prayer, 

To  the  goodly  house  of  worship,  where,  in  order  due  and  fit, 
As  by  public  vote  directed,  classed  and  ranked  the  people  sit; 

Mistress  first  and  goodwife  after,  clerkly  squire  before  the  clown, 
From  the  brave  coat,  lace  embroidered,  to  the  gray  frock,  shading  down; 

From  the  pulpit  read  the  preacher, — "  Goodman  Garvin  and  his  wife 

Fain  would  thank  the  Lord,  whose  kindness  has  followed  them  through  life, 

"  For  the  great  and  crowning  mercy,  that  their  daughter,  from  the  wild, 
Where  she  rests   (they  hope  in  God's  peace),  has  sent  to  them  her  child; 

"  And  the  prayers  of  all  God's  people  they  ask,  that  they  may  prove 
Not  unworthy,  through  their  weakness,  of  such  special  proof  of  love." 

As  the  preacher  prayed,  uprising,  the  aged  couple  stood, 
And  the  fair  Canadian  also,  in  her  modest  maidenhood. 

Thought  the  elders,  grave  and  doubting,  "  She  is  Papist  born  and  bred  " ; 
Thought  the  young  men,  "  'T  is  an  angel  in  Mary  Garvin' s  stead !  " 


258 


BALLADS. 


MAUD  MULLER. 

MAUD  MULLER,  on  a  summer's  day, 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 

Beneath   her   torn .  hat    glowed    the 

wealth 
Of   simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry 

glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off 

town, 
White    from     its     hill-slope     looking 

down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  un 
rest 

And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her 
breast, — • 

A    wish,    that    she    hardly    dared    to 

own, 
For   something  better  than   she  had 

known. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  ask  a  draught  from  the  spring 

that  flowed 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She    stooped   where    the   cool    spring 

bubbled  up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking 

down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered 

gown. 

"  Thanks  !  "  said  the  Judge ;  "  a 
sweeter  draught 


From  a  fairer  hand  was  never 
quaffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers 
and  trees, 

Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  hum 
ming  bees; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  won 
dered  whether 

The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring 
foul  weather. 

And    Maud     forgot     her     brier-torn 

gown, 
And    her    graceful    ankles    bare    and 

brown ; 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked    from   her   long-lashed   hazel 
eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud    Muller     looked    and    sighed: 

"  Ah  me ! 
That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be! 

"  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so 

fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

"  My  father  should  wear  a  broad 
cloth  coat ; 

My  brother  should  sail  a  painted 
boat. 

"  I  'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and 

gay, 
And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy 

each  day. 

"  And  I  'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe 

the  poor, 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our 

door." 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed 

the  hill, 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still. 


MAUD  MULLER. 


259 


"A    form    more    fair,    a    face    more 

sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

"  And  her  modest  answer  and  grace 
ful  air 

Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is 
fair. 

"  Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay : 

"  No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and 

wrongs, 
Nor     weary     lawyers     with     endless 

tongues, 

"  But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds, 
And    health    and    quiet    and   loving 
words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters  proud 

and  cold, 
And  his  mother  vain  of  her  rank  and 

gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode 

on, 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  after 
noon, 

When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old 
love-tune ; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the 

well, 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover 

fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Who    lived    for    fashion,    as    he    for 
power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright 

glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go ; 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked    out    in    their    innocent    sur 
prise. 


Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was 
red, 

He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  in 
stead  ; 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished 

rooms, 
To    dream  of  meadows  and  clover 

blooms. 

And  the  proud  man  sighed,  with  a 

secret  pain, 
"  Ah,  that  I  were  free  again ! 

"  Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day, 
"Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her 
hay." 

She    wedded    a    man   unlearned   and 

poor, 
And  many  children  played  round  her 

door. 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  childbirth 

pain, 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone 

hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow 

lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook 

fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein. 


And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 
She    felt    his    pleased  eyes  read  her 
face. 


Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls; 

The     weary    wheel     to     a     spinnet 

turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned, 


260 


BALLADS. 


And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney 

Jug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and 

mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life 

again, 
Saying  only,  "  It  might  have  been." 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 
For     rich     repiner     and     household 
drudge ! 

God  pity  them  both !  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  re 
call. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or 

pen, 
The   saddest   are  these :     "  It   might 

have  been !  " 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope 

lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away! 


THE  RANGER. 

ROBERT   RAWLIN! — Frosts   were   fall 
ing 
When  the  ranger's  horn  was  calling 

Through  the  woods  to  Canada. 
Gone  the  winter's  sleet  and  snowing, 
Gone  the  spring-time's  bud  and  blow 
ing, 
Gone  the  summer's  harvest  mowing, 

And  again  the   fields   are  gray. 

Yet  away,  he  's  away ! 
Faint  and  fainter  hope  is  growing 

In  the  hearts  that  mourn  his  stay. 

Where  the  lion,  crouching  high  on 
Abraham's  rock  with  teeth  of  iron, 
Glares  o'er  wood  and  wave  away, 


Faintly  thence,  as  pines  far  sighing, 
Or  as  thunder  spent  and  dying, 
Come  the  challenge  and  replying, 

Come  the  sounds  of  flight  and  fray. 

Well-a-day!     Hope  and  pray! 
Some  are  living,  some  are  lying 

In  their  red  graves  far  away. 

Straggling  rangers,   worn  with  dan 
gers, 
Homeward  faring,  weary  strangers 

Pass  the  farm-gate  on  their  way; 
Tidings  of  the  dead  and  living, 
Forest  march  and  ambush,  giving, 
Till  the  maidens  leave  their  weaving, 

And  the  lads  forget  their  play. 

"  Still  away,  still  away !  " 
Sighs  a  sad  one,  sick  with  grieving, 

"  Why  does  Robert  still  delay ! ' 

Nowhere  fairer,  sweeter,  rarer, 
Does   the    golden-locked    fruit-bearer 

Through     his     painted     woodlands 

stray, 

Than  where  hillside  oaks  and  beeches 
Overlook  the  long,  blue  reaches, 
Silver  coves  and  pebbled  beaches, 

And  green  isles  of  Casco  Bay; 

Nowhere  day,  for  delay, 
With  a  tenderer  look  beseeches, 

"  Let  me  with  my  charmed  earth 
stay." 

On  the  grain-lands  of  the  mainlands 
Stands    the    serried   corn    like   train 
bands, 

Plume  and  pennon  rustling  gay; 
Out  at  sea,  the  islands  wooded, 
Silver  birches,  golden-hooded, 
Set  with  maples,  crimson-blooded, 

White  sea-foam  and  sand-hills  gray, 

Stretch  away,  far  away, 
Dim  and  dreamy,  over-brooded 

By  the  hazy  autumn  day. 

Gayly  chattering  to  the  clattering 
Of  the  brown  nuts  downward  patter- 

ing, 

Leap  the  squirrels,  red  and  gray. 
On  the  grass-land,  on  the  fallow, 
Drop  the  apples,  red  and  yellow; 


THE  RANGER. 


261 


Drop  the  russet  pears  and  mellow, 
Drop  the  red  leaves  all  the  day. 
And  away,  swift  away, 

Sun  and  cloud,  o'er  hill  and  hollow 
Chasing,  weave  their  web  of  play. 

"  Martha  Mason,  Martha  Mason, 
Prithee  tell  us  of  the  reason 

Why  you  mope  at  home  to-day: 
Surely  smiling  is  not  sinning; 
Leave  your  quilling,  leave  your  spin 
ning; 
What  is  all  your  store  of  linen, 

If  your  heart  is  never  gay? 

Come  away,  come  away! 
Never  yet  did  sad  beginning 

Make  the  task  of  life  a  play." 

Overbending,  till  she's  blending 
With  the  flaxen  skein  she  's  tending 

Pale  brown  tresses  smoothed  away 
From  her  face  of  patient  sorrow, 
Sits  she,  seeking  but  to  borrow, 
From  the  trembling  hope  of  morrow, 

Solace  for  the  weary  day. 

"  Go  your  way,  laugh  and  play ; 
Unto  Him  who  heeds  the  sparrow 

And  the  lily,  let  me  pray." 

"  With  our  rally,  rings  the  valley, — 
Join  us !  "  cried  the  blue-eyed  Nelly ; 

"  Join  us  !  "  cried  the  laughing  May : 
"To  the  beach  we  all  are  going, 
And,  to  save  the  task  of  rowing, 
West  by  north  the  wind  is  blowing, 

Blowing  briskly  down  the  bay! 

Come  away,  come  away ! 
Time  and  tide  are  swiftly  flowing, 

Let  us  take  them  while  we  may! 

"  Never  tell  us  that  you  '11  fail  us, 
Where   the   purple   beach-plum   mel 
lows 

On  the  bluffs  so  wild  and  gray. 
Hasten,  for  the  oars  aje  falling; 
Hark,  our  merry  mates  are  calling: 
Time  it  is  that  we  were  all  in, 

Singing  tideward  down  the  bay !  " 

"  Nay,  nay,  let  me  stay; 
Sore  and  sad  for  Robert  Rawlin 

Is  my  heart,"  she  said,  "  to-day." 


"  Vain  your  calling  for  Rob  Rawlin ! 
Some   red    squaw   his    moose-meat 's 
broiling, 

Or  some  French  lass,  singing  gay ; 
Just  forget  as  he's  forgetting; 
What  avails  a  life  of  fretting? 
If  some  stars  must  needs  be  setting, 

Others  rise  as  good  as  they." 

"  Cease,  I  pray ;  go  your  way !  " 
Martha  cries,  her  eyelids  wetting; 

"  Foul    and    false   the   words    you 
say !  " 

"  Martha  Mason,  hear  to  reason ! 
Prithee,  put  a  kinder  face  on !  " 

"  Cease  to  vex  me,"  did  she  say ; 
"  Better  at  his  side  be  lying, 
With  the  mournful  pine-trees  sighing, 
And  the  wild  birds  o'er  us  crying, 

Than  to  doubt  like  mine  a  prey; 

While  away,  far  away, 
Turns  my  heart,  forever  trying 

Some  new  hope  for  each  new  day. 

"When  the  shadows  veil  the  mead 
ows, 
And  the  sunset's  golden  ladders 

Sink     from     twilight's     walls     of 

gray,— 

From  the  window  of  my  dreaming, 
I  can  see  his  sickle  gleaming, 
Cheery-voiced,  can  hear  him  teaming 

Down  the  locust-shaded  way; 

But  away,  swift  away, 
Fades  the  fond,  delusive  seeming, 

And  I  kneel  again  to  pray. 


"  When  the  growing  dawn  is  showing, 
And  the  barn-yard  cock  is  crowing, 

And  the  horned  moon  pales  away: 
From  a  dream  of  him  awaking, 
Every  sound  my  heart  is  making 
Seems  a  footstep  of  his  taking; 

Then  I  hush  the  thought,  and  say, 

'  Nay,  nay,  he  's  away ! ' 
Ah !  my  heart,  my  heart  is  breaking 

For  the  dear  one  far  away." 

Look  up,  Martha !  worn  and  swarthy, 
Glows  a  face  of  manhood  worthy : 
"  Robert !  "  "  Martha  !  "  all  they  say. 


262 


LATER  POEMS. 


O'er  went  wheel  and  reel  together, 
Little  cared  the  owner  whither ; 
Heart  of  lead  is  heart  of  feather, 

Noon  of  night  is  noon  of  day! 

Come  away,  come  away! 
When  such  lovers  meet  each  other, 

Why  should  prying  idlers  stay? 

Quench     the     timber's     fallen     em 
bers, 


Quench   the   red   leaves    in    Decem 
ber's 

Hoary  rime  and  chilly  spray. 
But  the  hearth  shall  kindle  clearer, 
Household  welcomes  sound  sincerer, 
Heart  to  loving  heart  draw  nearer, 

When  the  bridal  bells  shall  say : 

"  Hope  and  pray,  trust  alway ; 
Life  is  sweeter,  love  is  dearer, 

For  the  trial  and  delay !  " 


LATER  POEMS.  18^-1857. 


THE  LAST   WALK  IN 
AUTUMN. 


O'ER  the  bare  woods,  whose  out 
stretched  hands 
Plead  with  the  leaden  heavens  in 

vain, 

I  see,  beyond  the  valley  lands, 
The  sea's  long    level    dim    with 

rain. 
Around   me   all    things,   stark   and 

dumb, 
Seem   praying    for    the    snows   to 

come, 
And,    for   the     summer    bloom    and 

greenness  gone, 

With  winter's  sunset  lights  and  daz 
zling  morn  atone. 


ii. 


Along  the  river's  summer  walk, 

The  withered  tufts  of  asters  nod; 
And  trembles  on  its  arid  stalk 
The  hoar  plume  of  the  golden- 
rod. 

And  on  a  ground  of  sombre  fir, 
And  azure-studded  juniper, 
The  silver  birch   its  buds  of  purple 

shows, 

And  scarlet  berries  tell  where  bloomed 
the  sweet  wild-rose! 


IIT. 

With  mingled  sound  of  horns  and 

bells, 
A  far-heard  clang,  the  wild  geese 

fly, 

Storm-sent,  from  Arctic  moors  and 

jells, 
Like  a  great  arrow  through  the 

sky, 

Two  dusky  lines  converged  in  one, 

Chasing  the  southward-flying  sun ; 

While  the  brave  snow-bird  and  the 

hardy  jay 

Call  to  them  from  the  pines,  as  if  to 
bid  them  stay. 


IV. 


I  passed  this  way  a  year  ago: 
The  wind  blew  south;  the  noon 

of  day 
Was    warm    as    June's;    and    save 

that  snow 
Flecked   the    low   mountains    far 

away, 

And  that  the  vernal-seeming  breeze 
Mocked    faded   grass     and    leafless 

trees, 
I  might  have  dreamed  of  summer  as 

I  lay, 

Watching  the  fallen  leaves  with  the 
soft  wind  at  play. 


THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN. 


263 


V.  .    . 

Since  then,  the  winter  blasts  have 

piled 

The  white  pagodas  of  the  snow 
On  these  rough  slopes,  and,  strong 

and  wild. 

Yon  river,  in  its  overflow 
Of    spring-time   rain  and   sun,   set 

free, 

Crashed  with  its  ices  to  the  sea; 
And  over  these  gray  fields,  then  green 

and  gold, 

The  summer    corn    has    waved,  the 
thunder's  organ  rolled. 

VI. 

Rich  gift  of  God !    A  year  of  time ! 
What  pomp  of  rise  and  shut  of 

day, 

What  hues  wherewith  our  North 
ern  clime 

Makes  autumn's  dropping  wood 
lands  gay, 
What    airs    outblown    from    ferny 

dells, 
And    clover-bloom   and    sweetbrier 

smells, 
What  songs  of  brooks  and  birds,  what 

fruits  and  flowers, 

Green  woods  and  moonlit  snows,  have 
in  its  round  been  ours! 

VII. 

I  know  not  how,  in  other  lands, 
The  changing  seasons  come  and 

go; 

What    splendors    fall     on     Syrian 

sands, 
What    purple    lights    on    Alpine 

snow! 

Nor  how  the  pomp  of  sunrise  waits 
On  Venice  at  her  watery  gates; 
A  dream  alone  to  me  is  Arno's  vale, 
And  the  Alhambra's  halls  are  but  a 
traveller's  tale. 

vin. 

Yet,  on  life's  current,  he  who  drifts 
Is   one  with   him   who   rows   or 
sails ; 


And  he  who  wanders  widest  lifts 

No  more  of  beauty's  jealous  veils 

Thart   he   who    from   his    doorway 

sees 

The  miracle  of  flowers  and  trees, 
Feels  the  warm  Orient  in  the  noon 
day  air, 

And  from  cloud  minarets  hears  the 
sunset  call  to  prayer! 


IX. 


The    eye   may  well   be  glad,    that 

looks 
Where   Pharpar's   fountains   rise 

and  fall ; 

But  he  who  sees  his  native  brooks 
Laugh  in  the  sun,  has  seen  them 

all. 

The  marble  palaces  of  Ind 
Rise  round  him  in   the   snow   and 

wind ; 
From  his  lone  sweetbrier  Persian  Ha- 

fiz  smiles, 

And  Rome's  cathedral  awe  is  in  his 
woodland  aisles. 


x. 


And  thus  it  is  my  fancy  blends 
The  near  at  hand  and  far  and 

rare; 
And  while  the  same  horizon  bends 

Above  the  silver-sprinkled  hair 
Which   flashed  the  light  of  morn 
ing  skies 

On  childhood's  wonder-lifted  eyes, 
Within  its  round  of  sea  and  sky  and 

field, 

Earth  wheels  with  all  her  zones,  the 
Kosmos   stands   revealed. 

XI. 

And  thus  the  sick  man  on  his  bed, 
The     toiler     to     his     task-work 

bound, 

Behold     their     prison-walls     out 
spread, 

Their     clipped     horizon     widen 
round ! 


264 


LATER  POEMS. 


While  freedom-giving  fancy  waits, 
Like  Peter's  angel  at  the  gates, 
The  power  is  theirs  to  baffle  care  and 

pain, 

To  bring  the  lost   world  back,   and 
make  it  theirs  again ! 


XII. 

What  lack  of  goodly  company, 

When  masters  of  the  ancient  lyre 
Obey  my  call,  and  trace  for  me 
Their  words  of  mingled  tears  and 

fire! 

I  talk  with  Bacon,  grave  and  wise, 
I   read   the    world    with     Pascal's 

eyes ; 
And   priest    and    sage,    with    solemn 

brows  austere, 

And  poets,  garland-bound,  the  Lords 
of  Thought,  draw  near. 


XIII. 

Methinks,  O   friend,    I    hear    thee 

say, 
"  In   vain   the   human   heart   we 

mock ; 
Bring   living  guests  who  love  the 

day, 
Not  ghosts   who  fly  at  crow  of 

cock! 
The  herbs  we  share  with  flesh  and 

blood, 

Are  better  than  ambrosial  food, 
With  laurelled   shades."     I  grant  it, 

nothing  loath, 

But  doubly  blest  is  he  who  can  par 
take  of  both. 


XIV. 

He    who    might     Plato's    banquet 

grace, 

Have  I  not  seen  before  me  sit, 
And  watched  his  puritanic  face, 
With  more  than  Eastern  wisdom 

lit? 
Shrewd    mystic !     who,     upon    the 

back 
Of  his    Poor   Richard's   Almanack, 


Writing  the  Sufi's  song,  the  Geiitoo'? 

dream, 
Links  Menu's  age  of  thought  to  FuV- 

ton's  age  of  steam! 


XV. 

Here  too,  of  answering  love  secure^ 
Have   I    not    welcomed    to    my 

hearth 

The  gentle  pilgrim  troubadour, 
Whose   songs   have  girdled   hatt 

the  earth; 

Whose  pages,  like  the  magic  mat 
Whereon  the  Eastern  lover  sat, 
Have  borne    me    over     Rhine-land's 

purple  vines, 

And  Nubia's  tawny_  sands,  and  Phry- 
gia's  mountain  pines! 

XVI. 

And  he,  who  to  the  lettered  wealth 

Of  ages  adds  the  lore  unpriced, 
The  wisdom  and  the  moral  health, 
The     ethics    of    the     school     of 

Christ ; 

The  statesman  to  his  holy  trust, 
As  the  Athenian  archon,  just, 
Struck  down,  exiled  like  him  for  truth 

alone, 

Has   he   not   graced   my   home   with 
beauty  all  his  own? 

XVII. 

What   greetings    smile,   what   fare 
wells  wave, 

What  loved  ones  enter  and  de 
part! 

The  good,  the  beautiful,  the  brave. 
The  Heaven-lent  treasures  of  the 

heart ! 
How    conscious    seems    the    frozen 

sod 
And   beechen    slope   whereon   they 

trod! 
The   oak-leaves    rustle,   and   the    dry 

grass  bends 

Beneath  the  shadowy  feet  of  lost  01 
absent  friends. 


THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN. 


265 


XVIII. 

Then  ask   not  why  to   these  bleak 

hills 

I  cling,  as  clings  the  tufted  moss, 
To    bear    the     winter's     lingering 

chills, 
The    mocking    spring's    perpetual 

loss. 
I    dream   of   lands   where   summer 

smiles, 
And   soft   winds   blow   from   spicy 

isles, 
But  scarce  would  Ceylon's  breath  of 

flowers  be  sweet, 

Could  I  not  feel  thy  soil,  New  Eng 
land,  at  my  feet ! 

XIX. 

At  times  I  long  for  gentler  skies, 
And  bathe  in  dreams   of  softer 

air, 
But  homesick  tears  would  fill  the 

eyes 
That  saw  the  Cross  without  the 

Bear. 

The  pine  must  whisper  to  the  palm, 
The    north-wind    break    the    tropic 

calm; 
And  with  the  dreamy  languor  of  the 

Line, 

The  North's  keen  virtue  blend,  and 
strength  to  beauty  join. 

XX. 

Better  to  stem  with  heart  and  hand 
The  roaring  tide  of  life,  than  lie, 
Unmindful,  on  its  flowery  strand, 
Of  God's  occasions  drifting  by ! 
Better  with  naked  nerve  to  bear 
The  needles  of  this  goading  air, 
Than,    in    the    lap    of    sensual    ease, 

forego 

The  godlike  power  to  do,  the  godlike 
aim  to  know. 


XXI. 

Home    of    my    heart!    to    me    more 
fair 


Than  gay  Versailles  or  Windsor's 

halls, 
The   painted,    shingly    town-house 

where 
The  freeman's  vote  for  Freedom 

falls ! 
The   simple  roof  where  prayer  is 

made, 

Than  Gothic  groin  and  colonnade ; 
The   living    temple    of    the    heart    of 

man, 

Than  Rome's  sky-mocking  vault,  or 
many-spired  Milan! 

XXII. 

More     dear     thy      equal     village 

schools. 
Where  rich  and  poor  the  Bible 

read, 
Than  classic  halls  where  Priestcraft 

rules, 
And  Learning  wears  the  chains 

of  Creed; 
Thy  glad  Thanksgiving,  gathering 

in 
The  scattered  sheaves  of  home  and 

kin, 

Than  the  mad  license  following  Len 
ten  pains, 

Or  holidays  of  slaves  who  laugh  and 
dance  in  chains. 

XXIII. 

And  sweet  homes  nestle  in  these 

dales, 
And  perch   along  these   wooded 

swells ; 

And,  blest  beyond  Arcadian  vales, 
They  hear  the  sound  of  Sabbath 

bells ! 

Here  dwells   no  perfect  man  sub 
lime, 
Nor    woman    winged    before    her 

time, 
But  with  the  faults  and  follies  of  the 

race, 

Old  home-bred  virtues  held  their  not 
unhonored  place. 


266 


LATER  POEMS. 


XXIV. 

Here   manhood    struggles    for   the 

sake 

Of  mother,  sister,  daughter,  wife. 
The   graces    and    the   loves   which 

make 

The  music  of  the  march  of  life; 
And  woman,  in  her  daily  round 
Of  duty,  walks  on  holy  ground. 
No  unpaid  menial  tills  the  soil,  nor 

here 

Is  the  bad  lesson  learned  at  human 
rights  to  sneer. 

xxv. 

Then  let  the  icy  north-wind  blow 
The     trumpets     of     the     coming 

storm, 

To  arrowy  sleet  and  blinding  snow 
Yon  slanting  lines  of  rain  trans 
form. 
Young  hearts  shall  hail  the  drifted 

cold, 

As  gaily  as  I  did  of  old; 
And  I,  who  watch  them  through  the 

frosty  pane, 
Unenvious,  live  in  them  my  boyhood 
o'er  again. 

XXVI. 

And  I  will  trust  that  He  who  heeds 
The  life  that  hides  in  mead  and 

wold, 
Who    hangs    yon    alder's    crimson 

beads, 
And   stains   these   mosses   green 

and  gold, 

Will  still,  as  He  hath  done,  incline 

His  gracious  care  to  me  and  mine; 

Grant  what  we  ask  aright,  from  wrong 

debar, 

And,  as  the  earth  grows  dark,  make 
brighter  every  star! 

XXVII. 

I  have  i.ot  seen,  I  may  not  see, 
My  hopes  for  man  take  form  in 
fact, 


But  God  will  give  the  victory 

In  due  time;  in  that  faith  I  act. 
And  he  who  sees  the  future  sure, 
The  baffling  present  may  endure, 
And    bless,    meanwhile,    the    unseen 

Hand  that  leads 
The  heart's  desires  beyond  the  halt 
ing  step  of  deeds. 

XXVIII. 

And   thou,   my   song,    I    send  thee 

forth, 
Where    harsher    songs    of    mine 

have  flown; 

Go,  find  a  place  at  home  and  hearth 
Where'er    thy    singer's    name    is 

known ; 

Revive  for  him  the  kindly  thought 
Of  friends ;  and  they  who  love  him 

not, 

Touched  by  some  strain  of  thine,  per 
chance  my  take 

The  hand  he  proffers  all,  and  thank 
him  for  thy  sake. 


THE    MAYFLOWERS. 

The  trailing  arbutus,  or  mayflower,  grows 
abundantly  in  the  vicinity  of  Plymouth,  and 
was  the  first  flower  that  greeted  the  Pilgrims 
after  their  fearful  winter. 

SAD  Mayflower!  watched  by  winter 
stars, 

And  nursed  by  winter  gales, 
With  petals  of  the  sleeted  spars, 

And  leaves  of  frozen  sails ! 

What  had  she  in  those  dreary  hours, 
Within  her  ice-rimmed  bay, 

In     common     with     the     wild-wood 

flowers, 
The  first  sweet  smiles  of  May? 

Yet,  "God  be  praised ! "  the  Pilgrim 

said, 

Who  saw  the  blossoms  peer 
Above    the    brown    leaves,    dry    and 

dead, 
"  Behold  our  Mayflower  here! " 


BURIAL  OF  BARBOUR. 


207 


"  God  wills  it :  here  our  rest  shall  be, 
Our  years  of  wandering  o'er, 

For  us  the  Mayflower  of  the  sea, 
Shall  spread  her  sails  no  more." 

O  sacred  flowers  of  faith  and  hope, 

As  sweetly  now  as  then 
Ye  bloom  on  many  a  birchen  slope, 

In  many  a  pine-dark  glen. 

Behind  the  sea-wall's  rugged  length, 
Unchanged,  your  leaves  unfold, 

Like  love  behind  the  manly  strength 
Of  the  brave  hearts  of  old. 

So  live  the  fathers  in  their  sons, 
Their  sturdy  faith  be  ours, 

And  ours  the  love  that  overruns 
Its  rocky  strength  with  flowers. 

The  Pilgrim's  wild  and  wintry  day 
Its  shadow  round  us  draws; 

The  Mayflower  of  his  stormy  bay, 
Our  Freedom's  struggling  cause. 

But  warmer  suns  erelong  shall  bring 

To  life  the  frozen  sod ; 
And,  through  dead  leaves  of  hope, 
shall  spring 

Afresh  the  flowers  of  God! 


BURIAL  OF  BARBOUR. 

BEAR  him,  comrades,  to  his  grave; 
Never  over  one  more  brave 

Shall  the  prairie  grasses  weep, 
In  the  ages  yet  to  come, 
When  the  millions  in  our  room, 

What  we  sow  in  tears,  shall  reap. 

Bear  him  up  the  icy  hill, 
With  the  Kansas,  frozen  still 

As  his  noble  heart,  below, 
And  the  land  he  came  to  till 
With  a  freeman's  thews  and  will, 

And    his    poor    hut    roofed    with 
snow ! 

One  more  look  of  that  dead  face, 
Of  his  murder's  ghastly  trace! 


One  more  kiss,    O   widowed  one! 
Lay  your  left  hands  on  his  Drow, 
Lift   your   right   hands   up,  and  vow 

That  his  work  shall  yet  be  done. 

Patience,  friends!     The  eye  of  God 
Every  path  by  Murder  trod 

Watches,  lidless,  day  and  night ; 
And  the  dead  man  in  his  shroud, 
And  his  widow  weeping  loud, 

And  our  hearts,  are  in  his  sight. 

Every  deadly  threat  that  swells 
With  the  roar  of  gambling  hells, 

Every  brutal  jest  and  jeer, 
Every  wicked  thought  and  plan 
Of  the  cruel  heart  of  man, 

Though    but    whispered,    He    can 
hear! 

We  in  suffering,  they  in  crime, 
Wait  the  just  award  of  time, 

Wait  the  vengeance  that  is  due ; 
Not  in  vain  a  heart  shall  break, 
Not  a  tear  for  Freedom's  sake 

Fall  unheeded:  God  is  true. 

While  the  flag  with  stars  bedecked 
Threatens  where  it  should  protect, 

And    the    Law    shakes  hands  with 

Crime, 

What  is  left  us  but  to  wait, 
Match  our  patience  to  our  fate, 

And  abide  the  better  time  ? 

Patience,  friends !     The  human  heart 
Everywhere  shall  take  our  part, 

Everywhere  for  us  shall  pray; 
On  our  side  are  nature's  laws, 
And  God's  life  is  in  the  cause 

That  we  suffer  for  to-day. 

Well  to  suffer  is  divine; 

Pass  the  watchword  down  the  line, 

Pass    the    countersign :    "  ENDURE. '; 
Not  to  him  who  rashly  dares, 
But  to  him  who  nobly  bears, 

Is  the  victor's  garland  sure. 

Frozen  earth  to  frozen  breast, 
Lay  our  slain  one  down  to  rest; 


268 


LATER  POEMS. 


Lay  him  down  in  hope  and  faith, 
And  above  the  broken  sod, 
Once  again,  to   Freedom's    God, 

Pledge  ourselves  for  life  or  death, — 

That  the  State  whose  walls  we  lay, 
In  our  blood  and  tears,  to-day, 

Shall  be  free  from  bonds  of  shame, 
And  our  goodly  land  untrod 
By  the  feet  of  Slavery,  shod 

With  cursing  as  with  flame! 

Plant  the  Buckeye  on  his  grave, 
For  the  hunter  of  the  slave 

In  its  shadow  cannot  rest; 
And  let  martyr  mound  and  tree 
Be  our  pledge  and  guaranty 

Of  the  freedom  of  the  West! 


TO  PENNSYLVANIA. 

O  STATE  prayer-founded!  never  hung 
Such  choice  upon  a  people's  tongue. 

Such  power  to  bless  or  ban, 
As    that    which    makes    thy    whisper 

Fate, 
For  which  on  thee  the  centuries  wait, 

And  destinies  of  man ! 

Across  thy  Alleghanian  chain, 
With  groanings  from  a  land  in  pain, 

The  west-wind  finds  its  way: 
Wild-wailing    from    Missouri's    flood 
The    crying   of   thy   children's    blood 

Is  in  thy  ears  to-day! 

And  unto  thee  in  Freedom's  hour 
Of  sorest  need  God  gives  the  power 

To  ruin  or  to  save ; 
To  wound  or  heal,  to  blight  or  bless 
With  fertile  field  or  wilderness, 

A  free  home  or  a  grave ! 

Then  let  thy  virtue  match  the  crime, 
Rise  to  a  level  with  the  time; 

And,  if  a  son  of  thine 
Betray  or  tempt  thee,  Brutus-like 
For  Fatherland  and  Freedom  strike 

As  Justice  gives  the  sign. 


Wake,    sleeper,    from   thy    dream   of 

ease, 
The  great  occasion's  forelock  seize; 

And,  let  the  north-wind  strong, 
And  golden  leaves  of  autumn,  be 
Thy  coronal  of  Victory 

And  thy  triumphal  song. 
loth  mo.,  1856. 


THE   PASS  OF  THE  SIERRA. 

ALL  night  above  their  rocky  bed 
They  saw  the  stars  march  slow; 

The  wild  Sierra  overhead, 
The  desert's  death  below. 

The  Indian  from  his  lodge  of  bark, 
The  gray  bear  from  his  den, 

Beyond  their  camp-fire's  wall  of  dark, 
Glared  on  the  mountain  men. 

Still    upward    turned,    with    anxious 
strain 

Their  leader's   sleepless  eye, 
Where  splinters  of  the  mountain  chain 

Stood  black  against  the  sky. 

The  night  waned  slow  :  at  last,  a  glow, 

A  gleam  of  sudden  fire, 
Shot  up  behind  the  walls  of  snow, 

And  tipped  each  icy  spire. 

"Up,  men!"   he   cried,   "yon    rocky 

cone, 

To-day,  please  God,  we'll  pass, 
And     look     from     Winter's      frozen 

throne 
On  Summer's  flowers  and  grass!" 

They  set  their  faces  to  the  blast, 
They  trod   the  eternal   snow, 

And  faint,  worn,  bleeding,  hailed  at 

last 
The  promised  land  below. 

Behind,  they     saw     the     snow-cloud 
tossed 

By  many  an  icy  horn; 
Before,  warm  valleys,  wood-embossed, 

And  green  with  vines  and  corn. 

They  left  the  Winter  at  their  backs 
To  flap  his  baffled  wing, 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  FINLAND. 


269 


And   downward,   with   the   cataracts, 
Leaped  to  the  lap  of  Spring. 

Strong  leader  of  that  mountain  band, 

Another   task   remains, 
To  break  from  Slavery's  desert  land 

A  path  to  Freedom's  plains. 

The  winds  are  wild,  the  way  is  drear, 
Yet,  flashing  through  the  night, 

Lo!   icy  ridge  and  rocky  spear 
Blaze  out  in  morning  light ! 

Rise  up,  FREMONT!  and  go  before; 

The  Hour  must  have  its  Man; 
Put  on  the  hunting-shirt  once  more, 

And  lead  in  Freedom's  van! 
8th  mo.,  1856. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  FINLAND 

ACROSS  the  frozen  marshes 
The  winds  of  autumn  blow, 

And  the  fen-lands  of  the  Wetter 
Are  white  with  early  snow. 

But  where  the  low,  gray  headlands 
Look  o'er  the  Baltic  brine, 

A  bark  is  sailing  in  the  track 
Of    England's    battle-line. 

No  wares  hath  she  to  barter 
For  Bothnia's  fish  and  grain ; 

She  saileth  not  for  pleasure, 
She  saileth  not  for  gain. 

But  still  by  isle  or  main-land 
She  drops  her  anchor  down, 

Where'er  the  British  cannon 
Rained  fire  on  tower  and  town. 

Outspake  the  ancient  Amtman, 
At  the  gate  of  Helsingfors: 

"  Why  comes  this  ship  a-spying 
In  the  track  of  England's  wars?  " 


'  God    bless    her,"    said    the    coast 
guard, — 

"  God   bless   the  ship,   I   say. 
The  holy  angels  trim  the  sails 

That  speed  her  on  her  way! 

"  Where'er  she  drops  her  anchor, 
The  peasant's   heart  is  glad; 

Where'er  she  spreads  her  parting  saii, 
The  peasant's  heart  is  sad. 

"  Each  wasted  town  and  hamlet 

She  visits  to  restore; 
To  roof  the  shattered  cabin, 

And  feed  the  starving  poor. 

"The  sunken  boats  of  fishers, 
The  foraged  beeves  and  grain, 

The  spoil  of  flake  and   storehouse, 
The  good  ship  brings  again. 

"  And  so  to  Finland's  sorrow 
The  sweet  amend  is  made, 

As    if    the    healing    hand    of    Christ 
Upon  her  wounds  were  laid !  " 

Then  said  the  gray  old  Amtman. 

"The  will  of  God  be  done! 
The  battle  lost  by  England's  hate, 

By  England's  love  is  won ! 

"  We  braved  the  iron  tempest 
That  thundered  on  our  shore ; 

But  when  did  kindness  fail  to  find 
The  key  to  Finland's  door? 

"  No  more  from  Aland's  ramparts 
Shall  warning  signal  come, 

Nor  startled  Sweaborg  hear  again 
The   roll   of   midnight   drum. 

"  Beside  our  fierce  Black  Eagle 
The  Dove  of  Peace  shall  rest ; 

And  in  the  mouths  of  cannon 
The  sea-bird  make  her  nest. 

"  For  Finland,  looking  seaward, 
No  coming  foe  shall  scan ; 

And   the   holy   bells   of    Abo 
Shall  ring,  'Good-will  to  man!' 


270 


LATER  POEMS. 


"  I  clothe  your  hands  with  power  to 
lift 

The  curse  from  off  your  soil; 
Your  very  doom  shall  seem  a  gift, 

Your  loss  a  gain  through  Toil. 

"  Go,  cheerful  as  yon  humming-bees, 

To  labor  as  to  play." 
White  glimmering  over  Eden's  trees 

The  angel  passed  away. 

The  pilgrims  of  the  world  went  forth 

Obedient  to  the  word, 
And  found  where'er  they  tilled  the 
earth 

A  garden  of  the  Lord! 

The  thorn-tree  cast  its  evil  fruit 
And  blushed  with  plum  and  pear, 

And  seeded  grass  and  trodden  root 
Grew  sweet  beneath  their  care. 

We  share  our  primal  parents'  fate, 

And  in  our  turn  and  day, 
Look  back  on  Eden's  sworded  gate 

As  sad  and  lost  as  they. 

But  still  for  us  his  native  skies 
The  pitying  Angel  leaves, 

And  leads  through  Toil  to  Paradise 
New  Adams  and  new  Eves ! 


WHAT  OF  THE  DAY? 

A  SOUND  of  tumult  troubles  all  the 

air, 
Like  the  low  thunders  of  a  sultry 

sky 

Far-rolling  ere  the  downright  light 
ning's    glare ; 
The  hills  blaze  red  with  warnings; 

foes  draw  nigh, 
Treading  the  dark  with  challenge 

and  reply. 
Behold  the  burden  of  the  prophet's 

vision, — 

The  gathering  hosts, — the  Valley  of 
Decision, 


"  Then  row  thy  boat,  O  fisher ! 

In  peace  on  lake  and  bay; 
And    thou,    young     maiden,     dance 
again 

Around  the  poles  of  May ! 

"  Sit  down,  old  men,  together, 

Old  wives,  in  quiet  spin; 
Henceforth  the  Anglo-Saxon 

Is  the  brother  of  the  Finn!" 


A  LAY  OF  OLD  TIME. 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  ESSEX  COUNTY  AGRI 
CULTURAL    FAIR. 

ONE  morning  of  the  first  sad  Fall, 
Poor  Adam  and  his  bride 

Sat  in  the    shade  of  .  Eden's   wall — 
But  on  the  outer  side. 

She,  blushing  in  her  fig-leaf  suit 
For  the  chaste  garb  of  old ; 

He,  sighing  o'er  his  bitter  fruit 
For  Eden's  drupes  of  gold. 

Behind  them,  smiling  in  the  morn, 

Their  forfeit  garden  lay, 
Before    them,    wild    with    rock    and 
thorn, 

The  desert  stretched  away. 

They    heard    the    air    above    them 
fanned, 

A  light  step  on  the  sward, 
And  lo !  they  saw  before  them  stand 

The  angel  of  the   Lord! 

"Arise,"  he  said,  "why  look  behind, 

When  hope  is  all  before, 
And  patient  hand  and  willing  mind, 

Your  loss  may  yet  restore? 

"I    leave   with    you   a    spell   whose 
power 

Can  make  the  desert  glad, 
And  call  around  you  fruit  and  flower 

As  fair  as  Eden  had. 


THE  FIRST  FLOWERS. 


271 


Du*k    with    the    wings    of    eagles 

wheeling  o'er. 
Day  of  the  Lord,  of  darkness  and  not 

light ! 

It  breaks  in  thunder  and  the  whirl 
wind's  roar ! 
Even    so,   Father!     Let  thy  will  be 

done, — 
Turn   and   o'erturn,    end   what   thou 

hast  begun 

In  judgment  or  in  mercy:  as  for  me, 
If  but  the  least  and  frailest,  let  me  be 
Ever  more  numbered  with  the  truly 

free 

Who  find  thy  service  perfect  liberty! 
I  fain  would  thank  Thee  that  my 

mortal  life 
Has     reached     the     hour      (albeit 

through  care  and  pain) 
When   Good  and   Evil,   as   for   final 

strife, 

Close  dim  and  vast  on  Armaged 
don's  plain ; 
And    Michael    and    his    angels    once 

again 
Drive  howling  back  the  Spirits  of 

the  Night. 
O    for   the   faith   to   read   the   signs 

aright 
And,   from  the  angle  of  thy  perfect 

sight, 
See  Truth's  white  banner  floating 

on  before; 
And  the  Good  Cause,  despite     of 

venal  friends, 
And    base    expedients,      move      to 

noble  ends ; 
See  Peace  with  Freedom  make  to 

Time  amends, 
And,  through  its  cloud  of  dust,  the 

threshing-floor, 
Flailed    by    thy    thunder,      heaped 

with  chafHess  grain ! 
1857. 


THE  FIRST  FLOWERS. 

FOR  ages  on  our  river  borders, 
These  tassels  in  their  tawny  bloom, 

And  willowy  studs  of  downy  silver, 
Have  prophesied  of  Spring  to  come. 


For  ages  have  the  unbound  waters 
Smiled  on  them  from  their  pebbly 

hem, 

And  the  clear  carol  of  the  robin 
And   song   of    bluebird    welcomed 
them. 

But  never  yet  from  smiling  river, 
Or  song  of  early  bird,  have  they 

Been  greeted  with  a  gladder  welcome 
Than  whispers  from  my  heart  to 
day. 

They    break   the    spell    of    cold    and 

darkness, 

The  weary  watch  of  sleepless  pain; 
And  from  my  heart,  as  from  the 

river, 
The  ice  of  winter  melts  again. 

Thanks,  Mary!  for  this  wild-wood 
token 

Of  Freya's  footsteps  drawing  near; 
Almost,  as  in  the  rune  of  Asgard, 

The  growing  of  the  grass  I  hear. 

It  is  as  if  the  pine-trees  called  me 
From  ceiled  room  and  silent  books, 

To  see  the  dance  of  woodland  shad 
ows, 
And  hear  the  song  of  April  brooks ! 

As  in  the  old  Teutonic  ballad 
Live    singing    bird    and    flowering 

tree, 

Together  live  in  bloom  and  music, 
I    blend    in   song   thy   flowers   and 
thee. 

Earth's  rocky  tablets  bear  forever 
The  dint  of  rain  and  small  bird's 

track : 

Who  knows  but  that  my  idle  verses 
May    leave    some    trar-1   by  Merri- 
mack! 

The  bird  that  trod  the  mellow  layers 
Of  the  young   earth   is   sought   in 

vain; 

The  cloud  is  gone  that  wove  the  sand 
stone, 

From  God's  design,  with  threads  of 
rain! 


272 


LATER  POEMS. 


So,  when  this  fluid  age  we  live  in 
Shall    stiffen    round    my    careless 

rhyme, 
Who  made  the  vagrant  tracks  may 

puzzle 
The  savans  of  the  corning  time : 

And,  following  out  their  dim  sugges 
tions, 

Some  idly-curious  hand  may  draw 
My  doubtful  portraiture,  as  Cuvier 
Drew  fish   and  bird  from  fin  and 
claw. 

And  maidens  in  the  far-off  twilights 

Singing   my   words   to   breeze  and 

stream, 

Shall  wonder  if  the  old-time  Mary 
Were  real,  or  the  rhymer's  dream! 

1st  $d  mo.,  1857. 


MY  NAMESAKE. 

You  scarcely  need  my  tardy  thanks, 
Who,    self-rewarded,      nurse      and 

tend— 
A    green    leaf   on   your    own    Green 

Banks — 
The  memory  of  your  friend. 

For    me,    no    wreath,    bloom-woven, 

hides 
The    sobered    brow    and    lessening 

hair: 

For  aught  I  know,  the  myrtled  sides 
Of  Helicon  are  bare. 

Their  scallop-shells  so  many  bring 
The  fabled  founts  of  song  to  try, 

They  've  drained,  for  aught  I  know, 

the  spring 
Of  Aganippe  dry. 

\h  well ! — The  wreath  the  Muses 
braid 

Proves  often  Folly's  cap  and  bell; 
Methinks,  my  ample  beaver's  shade 

May  serve  my  turn  as  well. 


Let     Love's  and  Friendship's  tender 
debt 

Be  paid  by  those  I  love  in  life. 
Why   should  the  unborn  critic  whet 

For  me  his  scalping-knife? 

Why   should   the   stranger  peer  and 
pry 

One's  vacant  house  of  life  about, 
And  drag  for  curious  ear  and  eye 

His    faults   and   follies   out? — 

Why  stuff,  for  fools  to  gaze  upon, 
With  chaff  of  words,  the  garb  he 
wore, 

As  corn-husks  when  the  ear  is  gone 
Are  rustled  all  the  more? 

Let  kindly  Silence  close  again, 
The  picture  vanish  from  the  eye, 

And  on  the  dim  and  misty  main 
Let  the  small  ripple  die. 

Yet  not  the  less  I  own  your  claim 
To  grateful  thanks,  dear  friends  of 
mine. 

Hang,  if  it  please  you  so,  my  name 
Upon  your  household  line. 

Let  Fame  from  brazen  lips  blow  wide 
Her  chosen  names,  I  envy  none : 

A  mother's  love,  a  father's  pride, 
Shall  keep  alive  my  own ! 

Still  shall  that  name  as  now  recall 
The  young  leaf  wet  with  morning 
dew, 

The  glory  where  the  sunbeams  fall 
The  breezy   woodlands   through. 

That  name  shall  be  a  household  word, 
A  spell  to  waken  smile  or  sigh ; 

In  many  an  evening  prayer  be  heard 
And  cradle  lullaby. 

And  thou,  dear  child,  in  riper  days 
When    asked    the    reason    of    thy 

name, 
Shalt  answer :  "  One  't  were  vain  to 

praise 
Or  censure  bore  the  same. 


MY  NAMESAKE. 


273 


"  Some   blamed   him,   some   believed 

him  good, — 
The  truth  lay  doubtless  'twixt  the 

two, — 

He  reconciled  as  best  he  could 
Old  faith  and  fancies  new. 

"  In  him  the  grave  and  playful  mixed, 
And  wisdom  held  with  folly  truce, 

And  Nature  compromised  betwixt 
Good    fellow    and    recluse. 

"  He  loved  his  friends,  forgave  his 

foes; 
And,   if  his   words  were  harsh  at 

times, 

He  spared  his  fellow-men, — his  blows 
Fell  only  on  their  crimes. 

"  He  loved  the  good  and  wise,  but 
found 

His  human  heart  to  all  akin 
Who  met  him  on  the  common  ground 

Of  suffering  and  of  sin. 

"  Whate'er  his   neighbors  might  en 
dure 

Of  pain  or  grief  his  own  became; 
For  all  the  ills  he  could  not  cure 

He  held  himself  to  blame. 

"  His  good  was  mainly  an  intent, 
His  evil  not  of  forethought  done; 

The   work   he   wrought   was    rarely 

meant 
Or  finished  as  begun. 

"  111  served  his  tides  of  feeling  strong 
To  turn  the  common  mills  of  use; 

And,  over  restless  wings  of  song, 
His    birthright    garb    hung    loose! 

"  His    eye    wa?    beauty's    powerless 

slave, 
And    his    the    ear    which    discord 

pains : 

Few  guessed  beneath  his  aspect  grave 
What  passions  strove  in  chains. 

"  He  had  his  share  of  care  and  pain, 
No  holiday  was  life  to  him ; 

Still  in  the  heirloom  cup  we  drain 
The  bitter  drop  will  swim. 


"Yet  Heaven  was  kind,  and  here  a 

bird 
And    there  a   flower   beguiled   his 

way; 

And,  cool,  in  summer  noons,  he  heard 
The  fountains  plash  and  play. 

"  On  all  his  sad  or  restless  moods 
The  patient  peace  of  Nature  stole; 

The  quiet  of  the  fields  and  woods 
Sank  deep  into  his  soul. 

"  He  worshipped  as  his  fathers  did, 
And  kept  the  faith  of  childish  days, 

And,  howsoe'er  he  strayed  or  slid, 
He  loved  the  good  old  ways. 

"  The  simple  tastes,  the  kindly  traits, 
The  tranquil  air,  and  gentle  speech, 

The  silence  of  the  soul  that  waits 
For  more  than  man  to  teach. 

"  The  cant  of  party,  school,  and  sect, 
Provoked  at  times  his  honest  scorn, 

And  Folly,  in  its  gray  respect, 
He  tossed  on  satire's  horn. 

"  But  still  his  heart  was  full  of  awe 
And  reverence  for  all  sacred  things ; 

And,  brooding  over  form  and  law, 
He  saw  the  Spirit's  wings! 

"Life's  mystery  wrapt  him  like  a 
cloud ; 

He  heard  far  voices  mock  his  own, 
The  sweep  of  wings  unseen,  the  loud, 

Long  roll  of  waves  unknown. 

'  The  arrows  of  his  straining  sight 
Fell   quenched   in   darkness ;   priest 
and  sage, 

Like  lost  guides  calling  left  and  right, 
Perplexed  his  doubtful  age. 

"Like  childhood,  listening  for  the 
sound 

Of  its  dropped  pebbles  in  the  well, 
All  vainly  down  the  dark  profound 

His  brief-lined  plummet  fell. 


274 


LATER  POEMS. 


"  So,    scattering    flowers    with    pious 

pains 

On  old  beliefs,  of  later  creeds, 
Which    claimed    a    place    in    Truth's 

domains, 
He  asked  the  title-deeds. 

"  He  saw  the  old-time's  groves  and 
shrines 

In  the  long  distance  fair  and  dim; 
And  heard,  like  sound  of  far-off  pines, 

The    century-mellowed   hymn ! 

"  He    dared   not   mock  the    Dervish 

whirl, 
The    Brahmin's    rite,   the     Lama's 

spell; 
God    knew    the     heart:     Devotion's 

pearl 
Might  sanctify  the  shell. 

"  While  others  trod  the  altar  stairs 
He  faltered  like  the  publican; 

And,  while  they  praised  as  saints,  his 

prayers 
Were  those  of  sinful  man. 

"  For,  awed  by  Sinai's  Mount  of  Law, 
The  trembling  faith  alone  sufficed, 

That,  through  its  cloud  and  flame,  he 

saw 
The  sweet,  sad  face  of  Christ! — 

"And  listening,    with    his     forehead 

bowed, 
Heard  the  Divine  compassion  fill 


The  pauses  of  the  trump  and  cloud 
With  whispers  small  and  still. 

"The  words  he  spake,  the  thoughts 
he  penned, 

Are  mortal  as  his  hand  and  brain, 
But,  if  they  served  the  Master's  end, 

He  has  not  lived  in  vain!  " 

Heaven   make  thee  better   than   thy 

name, 
Child  of  my  friends !— For  thee  I 

crave 

What  riches  never  bought,  nor  fame 
To  mortal  longing  gave. 

I  pray  the  prayer  of  Plato  old : 
God  make   thee   beautiful   within, 

And  let  thine  eyes  the  good  behold 
In  everything  save  sin ! 

Imagination  held  in  check 

To  serve  not  rule  thy  poised  mind; 
Thy  Reason,  at  the  frown  or  beck 

Of  Conscience,  loose  or  bind. 

No  dreamer  thou,  but   real  all, — 
Strong   manhood    crowning   vigor 
ous  youth; 

Life  made  by  duty  epical 

And  rhythmic  with  the  truth. 

So  shall  that  life  the  fruitage  yield 
Which  trees  of  healing  only  give, 

And  green-leafed  in  the  Eternal  field 
Of  God,   forever  live! 


THE  WITCH'S  DAUGHTER. 


275 


HOME  BALLADS,  1860. 

I  CALL  the  old  time  back :  I  bring  these  lays 
To  thee,  in  memory  of  the  summer  days 
When,  by  our  native  streams  and  forest  ways, 

We  dreamed  them  over;  while  the  rivulets  made 
Songs  of  their  own,  and  the  great  pine-trees  laid 
On  warm  noon-lights  the  masses  of  their  shade. 

And  she  was  with  us,  living  o'er  again 
Her  life  in  ours,  despite  of  years  and  pain, — 
The  autumn's  brightness  after  latter  rain. 

Beautiful  in  her  holy  peace  as  one 

Who  stands,  at  evening,  when  the  work  is  done, 

Glorified  in  the  setting  of  the  sun ! 

Her  memory  makes  our  common  landscape  seem 
Fairer  than  any  of  which  painters  dream, 
Lights  the  brown  hills  and  sings  in  every  stream; 

For  she  whose  speech  was  always  truth's  pure  gold 
Heard,  not  unpleased,  its  simple  legends  told, 
And  loved  with  us  the  beautiful  and  old. 


THE     WITCH'S     DAUGHTER. 

IT  was  the  pleasant  harvest  time, 
When  cellar-bins  are  closely  stowed, 
And    garrets    bend    beneath    their 
load, 

And  the  old  swallow-haunted  barns — 
Brown-gabled,    long,    and    full    of 

seams 
Through  which  the  moted  sunlight 

streams, 

And  winds  blow  freshly  in,  to  shake 
The    red    plumes    of    the    roosted 

cocks, 
And  the  loose  hay-mow's   scented 

locks- 


Are    filled    with 
stores, 


summer's     ripened 


Its    odorous      grass      and      barley 

sheaves, 

From  their  low  scaffolds  to  their 
•  eaves. 

On  Esek  Harden's  oaken  floor, 
With    many   an    autumn    threshing 

worn, 

Lay  the  heaped  ears  of  unhusked 
corn. 

And    thither    came    young   men   and 

maids, 
Beneath    a   moon   that,    large    and 

tow, 
Lit  that  sweet  eve  of  long  ago. 

They    took    their    places;     some  by 

chance, 

And  others  by  a  merry  voice 
Or    sweet    smile    guided    to    their 

choice. 


276 


HOME  BALLADS. 


How  pleasantly  the  rising  moon, 
Between  the  shadows  of  the  mows. 
Looked  on  them  through  the  great 
elm-boughs ! — 

On  sturdy  boyhood   sun-embrowned, 
On  girlhood  with   its   solid  curves 
Of  healthful  strength  and  painless 
nerves ! 

And  jests   went   round,   and  laughs 

that  made 
The    house-dog    answer    with    his 

howl, 
And  kept  astir  the  barn-yard  fowl ; 

And  quaint  old  songs   their  fathers 

sung, 
In    Derby    dales    and      Yorkshire 

moors, 

Ere  Norman    William    trod    their 
shores ; 

And  tales,  whose  merry  license  shook 
The  fat  sides  of  the  Saxon  thane, 
Forgetful  of  the  hovering  Dane ! 

But  still  the  sweetest  voice  was.  mute 
That  river-valley  ever  heard 
From  lip  of  maid  or  throat  of  bird ; 

For  Mabel  Martin  sat  apart, 

And  let  the  hay-mow's  shadow  fall 
Upon  the  loveliest  face  of  all. 

She  sat  apart,   as  one  forbid, 
Who  knew  that  none  would  con 
descend 

To   own  the  Witch-wife's  child  a 
friend. 

The    seasons    scarce  had  gone   their 

round, 
Since  curious  thousands  thronged 

to  see 
Her  mother  on  the  gallows-tree; 

And  mocked  the  palsied  limbs  of  age, 
That  faltered  on  the  fatal  stairs, 


And    wan    lip    trembling    with    its 
prayers ! 

Few   questioned    of    the     sorrowing 

child, 

Or,  when  they  saw  the  mother  die, 
Dreamed  of  the  daughter's  agony. 

They  went  up  to  their  homes  that 

day, 

As  men  and  Christians  justified : 
God  willed  it,  and  the  wretch  had 
died! 

Dear  God  and  Father  of  us  all, 
Forgive  our  faith   in  cruel  lies, — 
Forgive  the  blindness  that  denies! 

Forgive  thy  creature  when  he  takes, 
For  the  all-perfect  love  thou  art, 
Some  grim  creation  of  his  heart. 

Cast  down  our  idols,  overturn 
Our  bloody  altars;  let  us  see 
Thyself   in   thy   humanity! 

Poor  Mabel  from  her  mother's  grave 
Crept  to  her  desolate  hearth-stone, 
And  wrestled  with  her  fate  alone; 

With  love,  and  anger,  and  despair, 
The  phantoms  of  disordered  sense, 
The  awful  doubts  of  Providence! 

The   school-boys  jeered  her  as  they 

passed, 
And,  when  she  sought  the  house  of 

prayer, 
Her  mother's  curse  pursued  her 

there. 

And   still   o'er   many   a   neighboring 

door 
She    saw    the    horseshoe's    curved 

charm, 
To  guard  against  her  mother's 

harm  ;— 

That   mother,   poor,    and    sick,    and 

lame, 

Who  daily,  by  the  old  arm-chair, 
Folded     her     withered     hands     in 

prayer ;— 


THE  WITCH'S  DAUGHTER. 


277 


Who  turned,  in   Salem' s  dreary  jail, 
Her  worn  old  Bible  o'er  and  o'er, 
When  her  dim  eyes  could  read  no 
more ! 

Sore  tried  and  pained,  the  poor  girl 

kept 
Her  faith,  and  trusted  that  her 

way, 
So  dark,  would  somewhere  meet 

the  day. 

And  still    her    weary    wheel    went 

round 

Day  after  day,  with  no  relief; 
Small    leisure    have    the   poor    for 

grief. 

So  in  the  shadow  Mabel  sits; 
Untouched  by  mirth  she  sees  and 

hears, 
Her  smile  is  sadder  than  her  tears. 

But  cruel  eyes  have  found  her  out, 
And  cruel  lips  repeat  her  name, 
And  taunt   her  with  her  mother's 
shame. 

She  answered  not  with  railing  words, 
But  drew  her  apron  o'er  her  face, 
And,  sobbing,  glided  from  the  place. 

And  only  pausing  at  the  door, 
Her  sad  eyes  met  the  troubled  gaze 
Of  one  who,  in  her  better  days, 

Had  been  her  warm  and  steady  friend, 
Ere   yet    her    mother's    doom    had 

made 
Even  Esek  Harden  half  afraid. 

He  felt  that  mute  appeal  of  tears, 
And,  starting,  with  an  angry  frown 
Hushed    all   the    wicked   murmurs 
down. 

"Good  neighbors   mine,"  he   sternly 

said, 
"  This  passes  harmless  mirth  or 

jest; 
I  brook  no  insult  to  my  guest. 


"  She  is  indeed  her  mother's  child ; 
But  God's  sweet  pity  ministers 
Unto  no  whiter  soul  than  hers. 

"Let  Goody  Martin  rest  in  peace; 
I  never  knew  her  harm  a  fly, 
And  witch  or  not,  God  knows,— 
not   I. 

"  I  know  who  swore  her  life  away ; 
And,  as  God  lives,  I  'd  not  condemn 
An  Indian  dog  on  word  of  them." 

The  broadest  lands  in  all  the  town, 
The   skill   to   guide,  the  power  to 

awe, 
Were  Harden's;  and  his  word  was 

law. 

None  dared  withstand  him  to  his  face, 
But  one  sly  maiden  spake  aside: 
"The  little  witch  is  evil-eyed! 

"  Her  mother  only  killed  a  cow, 
Or  witched  a  churn  or  dairy-pan; 
But   she,   forsooth,  must  charm  a 
man!" 

Poor  Mabel,  in  her  lonely  home, 
Sat  by  the  window's  narrow  pane, 
White    in    the    moonlight's    silver 
rain. 

The  river,  on  its  pebbled  rim, 

Made    music    such    as    childhood 

knew; 

The  door-yard  tree  was  whispered 
through 

By  voices  such  as  childhood's  ear 
Had  heard  in  moonlights  long  ago ; 
And    through    the    willow-boughs 
below 

She  saw  the  rippled  waters  shine; 
Beyond,    in    waves    of    shade    and 

light 
The  hills  rolled  off  into  the  night. 


278 


HOME  BALLADS. 


Sweet  sounds  and  pictures  mocking 

so 

The  sadness  of  her  human  lot, 
She    saw    and    heard,    but    heeded 
not. 

She   strove  to   drown   her   sense   of 

wrong, 

And,  in  her  old  and  simple  way, 
To  teach  her  bitter  heart  to  pray. 

Poor  child!  the  prayer,  begun  in  faith, 
Grew  to  a  low,  despairing  cry 
Of  utter  misery:  "Let  me  die! 

"  Oh !  take  me  from  the  scornful  eyes 
And    hide    me     where    the    cruel 

speech 
And     mocking     finger     may     not 

reach ! 

"  I    dare    not    breathe    my    mother's 

name: 
A  daughter's     right     I     dare     not 

crave 
To  weep  above  her  unblest  grave! 

"  Let  me  not  live  until  my  heart, 
With  few  to  pity,  and  with  none 
To  love  me,  hardens  into  stone. 

"  O  God!  have  mercy  on  thy  child, 
Whose  faith  in  thee  grows  weak 

and  small, 
And  take  me  ere  I  lose  it  all!  " 

A  shadow  on  the  moonlight  fell, 
And    murmuring    wind    and    wave 

became 
A  voice    whose    burden    was    her 

name. 

Had  then  God  heard  her?     Had  he 

sent 
His  angel  down?     In     flesh     and 

blood, 
Before  her  Esek  Harden  stood! 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm : 

"Dear  Mabel,  this  no  more  shall 

be; 
Who  scoffs  at  you,  must  scoff  at 

me. 


"  You  know     rough     Esek     Harden 

well ; 

And  if  he  seems  no  suitor  gay, 
And    if   his    hair   is   touched   with 

gray, 

"  The  maiden  grown  shall  never  find 
His  heart  less  warm  than  when  she 

smiled, 
Upon  his  knees,  a  little  child!  " 

Her  tears  of  grief  were  tears  of  joy, 
As,  folded  in  his  strong  embrace, 
She  looked  in  Esek  Harden's  face. 

"O  truest  friend  of  all!"  she  said. 
"  God    bless   you    for   your   kindly 

thought, 
And  make  me  worthy  of  my  lot !  " 

He  led  her  through  his  dewy  fields, 
To    where    the    swinging    lanterns 

glowed, 
And  through  the  doors  the  huskers 

showed. 

"  Good  friends  and  neighbors !  "  Esek 

said, 

"  I  'm  weary  of  this  lonely  life ; 
In  Mabel  see  my  chosen  wife ! 

"  She  greets  you  kindly,  one  and  all ; 
The  past  is  past,  and  all  offence 
Falls  harmless  from  her  innocence. 

"  Henceforth  she     stands     no     more 

alone ; 
You     know     what     Esek     Harden 

is: — 
He  brooks  no  wrong  to  him  or  his." 

Now  let  the  merriest  tales  be  told, 
And  let  the  sweetest  songs  be  sung 
That   ever  made     the     old     heart 
young ! 

For  now  the  lost  has  found  a  home; 
And   a  lone  hearth   shall   brighter 

burn, 
As  all  the  household  joys  return ! 


From  the  tree  whose  shadow  lay 
On  their  childhood's  place  of  play. 


THE  GARRISON  OF  CAPE  ANN. 


279 


O,  pleasantly  the  harvest-moon, 
Between  the  shadow  of  the  mows, 
Looked  on  them  through  the  great 
elm-boughs ! 


On  Mabel's  curls  of  golden  hair, 
On  Esek's  shaggy  strength  it  fell; 
And   the   wind   whispered,    "  It   is 
well!" 


THE  GARRISON  OF  CAPE  ANN. 

FROM  the  hills  of  home  forth  looking,  far  beneath  the  tent-like  span 
Of  the  sky,  I  see  the  white  gleam  of  the  headland  of  Cape  Ann. 
Well  I  know  its  coves  and  beaches  to  the  ebb-tide  glimmering  down, 
And  the  white-walled  hamlet  children  of  its  ancient  fishing-town. 

Long  has  passed  the  summer  morning,  and  its  memory  waxes  old, 
When  along  yon  breezy  headlands  with  a  pleasant  friend  I  strolled. 
Ah  !  the  autumn  sun  is  shining,  and  the  ocean  wind  blows  cool, 
And  the  golden-rod  and  aster  bloom  around  thy  grave,  Rantoul ! 

With  the  memory  of  that  morning  by  the  summer  sea  I  blend 

A  wild  and  wondrous  story,  by  the  younger  Mather  penned, 

In  that  quaint  Magnalia  Christi,  with  all  strange  and  marvellous  things, 

Heaped  up  huge  and  undigested,  like  the  chaos  Ovid  sings. 

Dear  to  me  these  far,  faint  glimpses  of  the  dual  life  of  old, 

Inward,  grand  with  awe  and  reverence;  outward,  mean  and  coarse  and  cold; 

Gleams  of  mystic  beauty  playing  over  dull  and  vulgar  clay, 

Golden  threads  of  romance  weaving  in  a  web  of  hodden  gray. 

The  great  eventful  Present  hides  the  Past;  but  through  the  din 
Of  its  loud  life  hints  and  echoes  from  the  life  behind  steal  in; 
And  the  lore  of  home  and  fireside,  and  the  legendary  rhyme, 
Make  the  task  of  duty  lighter  which  the  true  man  owes  his  time. 

So,  with  something  of  the  feeling  which  the  Covenanter  knew, 

When  with  pious  chisel  wandering  Scotland's  moorland  graveyards  through, 

From  the  graves  of  old  traditions  I  part  the  blackberry-vines, 

Wipe  the  moss  from  off  the  headstones,  and  retouch  the  faded  lines. 


Where  the  sea-waves  back  and  forward,  hoarse  with  rolling  pebbles,  ran, 
The  girrison-house  stood  watching  on  the  gray  rocks  of  Cape  Ann; 
On  its  windy  site  uplifting  gabled  roof  and  palisade, 
And  rough  walls  of  unhewn  timber  with  the  moonlight  overlaid. 

On  his  slow  round  walked  the  sentry,  south  and  eastward  looking  forth 
O'er  a  rude  and  broken  coast-line,  white  with  breakers  stretching  north, — 
Wood  and  rock  and  gleaming  sand-drift,  jagged  capes,  with  bush  and  tree, 
Leaning  inland  from  the  smiting  of  the  wild  and  gusty  sea. 


U80  HOME  BALLADS. 


Before  the  deep-mouthed  chimney,  dimly  lit  by  dying  brands, 
Twenty  soldiers  sat  and  waited,  with  their  muskets  in  their  hands ; 
On  the  rough-hewn  oaken  table  the  venison  haunch  was  shared, 
And  the  pewter  tankard  circled  slowly  round  from  beard  to  beard. 

Long  they  sat  and  talked  together, — talked  of  wizards  Satan-sold ; 
Of  all  ghostly  sights  and  noises, — signs  and  wonders  manifold ; 
Of  the  spectre-ship  of  Salem,  with  the  dead  men  in  her  shrouds, 
Sailing  sheer  above  the  water,  in  the  loom  of  morning  clouds ; 

Of  the  marvellous  valley  hidden  in  the  depths  of  Gloucester  woods, 
Full  of  plants  that  love  the  sumhier, —  blooms  of  warmer  latitudes; 
Where  the  Arctic  birch  is  braided  by  the  tropic's  flowery  vines, 
And  the  white  magnolia-blossoms  star  the  twilight  of  the  pines ! 

But  their  voices  sank  yet  lower,  sank  to  husky  tones  of  fear, 
As  they  spake  of  present  tokens  of  the  powers  of  evil  near; 
Of  a  spectral  host,  defying  stroke  of  steel  and  aim  of  gun ; 
Never  yet  was  ball  to  slay  them  in  the  mould  of  mortals  run ! 

Thrice,  with  plumes  and  flowing  scalp-locks,  from  the  midnight  wood  they 

came, — 

Thrice  around  the  block-house  marching,  met,  unharmed,  its  volleyed  flame ; 
Then,  with  mocking  laugh  and  gesture,  sunk  in  earth  or  lost  in  air, 
All  the  ghostly  wonder  vanished,  and  the  moonlit  sands  lay  bare. 

Midnight  came ;  from  out  the  forest  moved  a  dusky  mass  that  soon 
Grew  to  warriors,  plumed  and  painted,  grimly  marching  in  the  moon. 
"  Ghosts  or  witches,"  said  the  captain,  "  thus  I  foil  the  Evil  One !  " 
And  he  rammed  a  silver  button,  from  his  doublet,  down  his  gun. 

Once  again  the  spectral  horror  moved  the  guarded  wall  about; 
Once  again  the  levelled  muskets  through  the  palisades  flashed  out, 
With  that  deadly  aim  the  squirrel  on  his  tree-top  might  not  shun, 
Nor  the  1)each-bird  seaward  flying  with  his  slant  wing  to  the  sun. 

Like  the  idle  rain  of  summer  sped  the  harmless  shower  of  lead. 

With  a  laugh  of  fierce  derision,  once  again  the  phantoms  fled ; 

Once  again,  without  a  shadow  on  the  sands  the  moonlight  lay, 

And  the  white  smoke  curling  through  it  drifted  slowly  down  the  bay ! 

"  God  preserve  us !  "  said  the  captain ;  "  never  mortal  foes  were  there ; 
They  have  vanished  with  their  leader,  Prince  and  Power  of  the  air ! 
Lay  aside  your  useless  weapons ;  skill  and  prowess  naught  avail ; 
They  who  do  the  Devil's  service  wear  their  master's  coat  of  mail!  " 

So  the  night  grew  near  to  cock-crow,  when  again  a  warning  call 
Roused  the  score  of  weary  soldiers  watching  round  the  dusky  hall: 
And  they  looked  to  flint  and  priming,  and  they  longed  for  break  of  day; 
But  the  captain  closed  his  Bible :    "  Let  us  cease  from  man,  and  pray !  " 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL  SEWALL. 


281 


To  the  men  who  went  before  us,  all  the  unseen  powers  seemed  near, 
And  their  steadfast  strength  of  courage  struck  its  roots  in  holy  fear. 
Every  hand  forsook  the  musket,  every  head  was  bowed  and  bare, 
Every  stout  knee  pressed  the  flag-stones,  as  the  captain  led  in  prayer. 

Ceased  thereat  the  mystic  marching  of  the  spectres  round  the  wall, 
But  a  sound  abhorred,  unearthly,  smote  the  ears  and  hearts  of  all, — 
Howls  of  rage  and  shrieks  of  anguish !    Never  after  mortal  man 
Saw  the  ghostly  leaguers  marching  round  the  block-house  of  Cape  Ann. 

So  to  us  who  walk  in  summer  through  the  cool  and  sea-blown  town, 
From  the  childhood  of  its  people  comes  the  solemn  legend  down. 
Not  in  vain  the  ancient  fiction,  in  whose  moral  lives  the  youth 
And  the  fitness  and  the  freshness  of  an  undecaying  truth. 

Soon  or  late  to  all  our  dwellings  come  the  spectres  of  the  mind, 
Doubts  and  fears  and  dread  forebodings,  in  the  darkness  undefined; 
Round  us  throng  the  grim  projections  of  the  heart  and  of  the  brain, 
And  our  pride  of  strength  is  weakness,  and  the  cunning  hand  is  vain. 

In  the  dark  we  cry  like  children ;  and  no  answer  from  on  high 
Breaks  the  crystal  spheres  of  silence,  and  no  white  wings  downward  fly; 
But  the  heavenly  help  we  pray  for  comes  to  faith,  and  not  to  sight, 
And  our  prayers  themselves  drive  backward  all  the  spirits  of  the  night ! 


THE   PROPHECY    OF    SAMUEL 
SEWALL. 

1697. 

UP  and  down  the  village  streets 
Strange    are    the     forms     my     fancy 

meets, 
For  the  thoughts  and  things  of  to-day 

are  hid, 

And  through  the  veil  of  a  closed  lid 
The  ancient  worthies  I  see  again : 
I  hear  the  tap  of  the  elder's  cane, 
And  his  awful  periwig  I  see, 
And  the  silver  buckles  of  shoe  and 

knee. 

Stately  and  slow,  with  thoughtful  air, 
His   black    cap    hiding   his    whitened 

hair, 

Walks  the  Judge  of  the  great  Assize, 
Samuel  Sewall  the  good  and  wise. 
His     face    with    lines     of     firmness 

wrought, 
He   wears    the   look   of   a   man   un- 

bought, 


Who  swears  to  his  hurt  and  changes 
not; 

Yet,  touched  and  softened  neverthe 
less 

With  the  grace  of  Christian  gentle 
ness, 

The  face  that  a  child  would  climb  to 
kiss! 

True  and  tender  and  brave  and  just, 

That  man  might  honor  and  woman 
trust. 

Touching  and  sad,  a  tale  is  told, 

Like  a  penitent  hymn  of  the  Psalmist 
old, 

Of  the  fast  which  the  good  man  life 
long  kept 

With  a  haunting  sorrow  that  never 
slept, 

As  the  circling  year  brought  round 
the  time 

Of  an  error  that  left  the  sting  of 
crime, 

When  he  sat  on  the  bench  of  the 
witchcraft  courts, 


282 


HOME  BALLADS. 


With  the  laws  of  Moses  and  Hale's 

Reports, 
And  spake,  in  the  name  of  both,  the 

word 
That   gave   the  witch's   neck   to   the 

cord, 
And    piled   the    oaken    planks     that 

pressed 
The   feeble   life   from   the   warlock's 

breast ! 

All  the  day  long,  from  dawn  to  dawn, 
His    door    was    bolted,     his     curtain 

drawn ; 

No  foot  on  his  silent  threshold  trod, 
No  eye  looked  on  him  save  that  of 

God, 
As  he  baffled  the  ghosts  of  the  dead 

with  charms 
Of  penitent  tears,  and  prayers,   and 

psalms, 
And,  with  precious  proofs  from  the 

sacred  word 
Of  the  boundless  pity  and  love  of  the 

Lord, 

His  faith  confirmed  and  his  trust  re 
newed 
That  the  sin  of  his  ignorance,  sorely 

rued, 
Might  be  washed  away  in  the  mingled 

flood 
Of  his  human   sorrow   and   Christ's 

dear  blood! 


Green  forever  the  memory  be 
Of  the  Judge  of  the  old  Theocracy, 
Whom  even  his  errors  glorified, 
Like  a  far-seen,  sunlit  mountain-side 
By  the  cloudy  shadows  which  o'er  it 

glide! 

Honor  and  praise  to  the  Puritan 
Who  the  halting  step  of  his  age  out 
ran, 

And,  seeing  the  infinite  worth  of  man 
In  the  priceless  gift  the  Father  gave, 
In  the  infinite  love  that  stooped  to 

save, 

Dared  not  brand  his  brother  a  slave ! 
"  Who  doth  such  wrong,"  he  was 

wont  to  say; 
In  his  own  quaint,  picture-loving  way, 


"  Flings  up  to  Heaven  a  hand-grenade 
Which  God  shall  cast  down  upon  his 
head!" 


Widely  as  heaven  and  hell,  contrast 
That  brave  old  jurist  of  the  past 
And  the  cunning  trickster  and  knave 

of  courts 

Who  the  holy  features  of  Truth  dis 
torts, — 

Ruling  as  right  the  will  of  the  strong, 
Po-verty,  crime,  and  weakness  wrong ; 
Wide-eared  to  power,  to  the  wronged 

and  weak 

Deaf  as  Egypt's  gods  of  leek; 
Scoffing  aside  at  party's  nod 
Order  of  nature  and  law  of  God; 
For   whose    dabbled    ermine    respect 

were  waste, 

Reverence  folly,  and  awe  misplaced; 
Justice  of  whom  't  were  vain  to  seek 
As  from  Koordish  robber  or  Syrian 

Sheik! 
O,  leave  the  wretch  to  his  bribes  and 

sins ; 
Let  him  rot  in  the  web  of  lies  he 

spins ! 

To  the  saintly  soul  of  the  early  day, 
To  the  Christian  judge,  let  us  turn 

and  say: 
"  Praise   and   thanks    for    an    honest 

man ! — 
Glory  to  God  for  the  Puritan !  " 

I  see,  far  southward,  this  quiet  day, 
The  hills  of  Newbury  rolling  away, 
With  the  many  tints  of  the  season 

gay, 

Dreamily  blending  in  autumn  mist 
Crimson,  and  gold,  and  amethyst. 
Long  and  low,  with  dwarf  trees 

crowned, 
Plum     Island     lies,    like     a     whale 

aground, 

A  stone's  toss  over  the  narrow  sound. 
Inland,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  go, 
The  hills  curve  round  like  a  bended 

bow; 

A  silver  arrow  from  out  them  sprung, 
I  see  the  shine  of  the  Quasycung; 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL  SEWALL. 


283 


And,  round  and  round,  over  valley 
and  hill, 

Old  roads  winding,  as  old  roads  will, 

Here  to  a  ferry,  and  there  to  a  mill ; 

And  glimpses  of  chimneys  and  gabled 
eaves, 

Through  green  elm  arches  and  maple 
leaves, — • 

Old  homesteads  sacred  to  all  that  can 

Gladden  or  sadden  the  heart  of 
man, — 

Over  whose  thresholds  of  oak  and 
stone 

Life  and  Death  have  come  and  gone! 

There  pictured  tiles  in  the  fireplace 
show, 

Great  beams  sag  from  the  ceiling  low, 

The  dresser  glitters  with  polished 
wares, 

The  long  clock  ticks  on  the  foot-worn 
stairs, 

And  the  low,  broad  chimney  shows 
the  crack 

By  the  earthquake  made  a  century 
back. 

Up  from  their  midst  springs  the  vil 
lage  spire 

With  the  crest  of  its  cock  in  the  sun 
afire; 

Beyond  are  orchards  and  planting 
lands, 

And  great  salt  marshes  and  glimmer 
ing  sands, 

And,  where  north  and  south  the  coast 
lines  run, 

The  blink  of  the  sea  in  breeze  and 
sun! 


I  see  it  all  like  a  chart  unrolled, 

But  my  thoughts  are  full  of  the  past 
and  old, 

I  hear  the  tales  of  my  boyhood  told ; 

And  the  shadows  and  shapes  of  early 
days 

Flit  dimly  by  in  the  veiling  haze, 

With  measured  movement  and  rhyth 
mic  chime 

Weaving  like  shuttles  my  web  of 
rhyme. 

I  think  of  the  old  man  wise  and 
good 


Who   once   on    yon    misty    hillsides 

stood, 

(A  poet  who  never  measured  rhyme, 
A    seer    'inknown    to    his    dull-eared 

time,) 
And,    propped    on    his  staff  of  age, 

looked  down, 
With  his  boyhood's  love,  on  his  na 
tive  town, 
Where,  written,  as  if  on  its  hills  and 

plains, 

His  burden  of  prophecy  yet  remains, 
For  the  voices  of  wood,  and  wave, 

and  wind 
To    read   in  the   ear  of   the  musing 

mind : — • 


"  As  long  as  Plum  Island,  to  guard 

the  coast 

As  God  appointed,  shall  keep  its  post ; 
As  long  as  a  salmon  shall  haunt  the 

deep 
Of   Merrimack    River,    or    sturgeon 

leap ; 

As  long  as  pickerel  swift  and  slim, 
Or  red-backed  perch,  in  Crane  Pond 

swim; 

As  long  as  the  annual  sea-fowl  know 
Their  time  to  come  and  their  time  to 

go; 

As  long  as  cattle  shall  roam  at  will 
The  green,  grass  meadows  by  Turkey 

Hill; 
As  long  as  sheep  shall  look  from  the 

side 

Of  Oldtown  Hill  on  marishes  wide, 
And  Parker  River,  and  salt-sea  tide ; 
As  long  as  a  wandering  pigeon  shall 

search 
The  fields  below  from  his  white-oak 

perch, 
Wrhen  the  barley-harvest  is  ripe  and 

shorn, 
And   the   dry   husks    fall    from    the 

standing  corn ; 

As  long  as  Nature  shall  not  grow  old, 
Nor  drop  her  work  from  her  doting 

hold, 

And  her  care  for  the  Indian  corn  for 
get, 


284 


HOME  BALLADS. 


And    the    yellow    rows    in   pairs    to 

set;— 

So  long  shall  Christians  here  be  born, 
Grow  up  and  ripen  as  God's  sweet 

corn ! — 
By  the  beak  of  bird,  by  the  breath  of 

frost 

Shall  never  a  holy  ear  be  lost, 
But,  husked  by  Death  in  the  Planter's 

sight, 
Be  sown  again  in  the  fields  of  light !  " 


The  Island  still  is  purple  with  plums, 
Up  the  river  the  salmon  comes, 
The  sturgeon  leaps,  and  the  wild-fowl 

feeds 
On     hillside     berries     and      marish 

seeds, — 

All  the  beautiful  signs  remain, 
From  spring-time  sowing  to  autumn 

rain 

The  good  man's  vision  returns  again ! 
And  let  us  hope,  as  well  we  can, 
That  the  Silent  Angel  who   garners 

man 
May  find  some  grain  as   of  old  he 

found 
In    the    human    cornfield    ripe   and 

sound, 
And  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest  deign 

to  own 
The   precious   seed    by    the    fathers 

sown ! 


SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE. 

OF  all   the   rides   since  the  birth   of 

time, 

Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme, — 
On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 
Or    one-eyed    Calendar's     horse    of 

brass, 

Witch  astride  of  a  human  hack, 
Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak, — 
The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 
Was  Ireson's,  out  from  Marblehead! 
Old   Floyd   Ireson,    for    his    hard 

heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried 

in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 


Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 
Wings  a-droop  like  a  rained-on  fowl, 
Feathered  and  ruffled  in  every  part, 
Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 
Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 
Strong  of  muscle,  and  glib  of  tongue, 
Pushed  and  pulled  up  the  rocky  lane, 
Shouting  and  singing  the   shrill   re 
frain  : 
"  Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in 

a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead !  " 

Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 
Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips, 
Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such  as  chase 
Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 
Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 
Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 
With   conch-shells  blowing  and  fish- 
horns'  twang, 

Over  and  over  the  Maenads  sang: 
"  Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a 

corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !*" 

Small  pity  for  him !— He  sailed  away 
From    a    leaking     ship,     in     Chaleur 

Bay,— 

Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 
With  his  own  town's-people  ton  her 

deck! 
"  Lay  by !    lay    by !  "  they  called    to 

him. 

Back  he  answered,  "  Sink  or  swim ! 
Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again !  " 
And  off  he  sailed  through  the  fog  and 

rain! 
Old    Floyd    Ireson,    for    his     hard 

heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried 

in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore. 
Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid, 


TELLING  THE  BEES. 


285 


Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 
Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea, — 
Looked    for   the   coming    that   might 

not  be ! 
What  did  the  winds  and  the  sea-birds 

say 
Of    the    cruel     captain     who     sailed 

away  ? — 
Old    Floyd    Ireson,    for    his     hard 

heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried 

in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 


Through  the  street,  on  either  side, 
Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide ; 
Sharp-tongued    spinsters,    old    wives 

gray, 

Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  bray. 
Sea-worn  grandsires,  cripple-bound, 
Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 
Shook  head,  and  fist,  and   hat,  and 

cane, 
And  cracked  with  curses  the  hoarse 

refrain : 
"  Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a 

corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead !  " 


Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 
Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed. 
Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 
Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky  so 

blue. 

Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim, 
Like  an  Indian  idol  glum  and  grim, 
Scarcely    he    seemed    the    sound    to 

hear 

Of  voices  shouting,  far  and  near: 
"  Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a 

corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead !  " 


"  Hear   me,   neighbors !  "   at   last   he 

cried, — 
"  What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride  ? 


What  is  the  shame  that  clothes  the 

skin 
To  the  nameless    horror    that    lives 

within? 

Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck, 
And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck ! 
Hate  me  and  curse  me, — I  only  dread 
The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of  the 

dead !  " 
Said  old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard 

heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried 

in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at 

sea 
Said,  "  God  has  touched  him ! — why 

should  we  ?  " 
Said  an  old  wife  mourning  her  only 

son, 
"  Cut  the  rogue's  tether  and  let  him 

run ! " 

So  with  soft  relentings  and  rude  ex 
cuse, 
Half   scorn,  half  pity,  they  cut  him 

loose, 

And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in, 
And  left  him  alone  with  his    shame 

and  sin. 
Poor    Floyd    Ireson,    for    his    hard 

heart, 
Tarred   and  feathered  and  carried 

in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 


TELLING  THE  BEES. 

HERE  is  the  place ;  right  over  the  hill 

Runs  the  path  I  took; 
You  can  see  the  gap  in  the  old  wall 

still, 

And  the  stepping-stones  in  the  shal 
low  brook. 

There  is  the  house,  with  the  gate  red- 
barred, 
And  the  poplars  tall; 


286 


HOME  BALLADS. 


And  the  barn's  brown  length,  and  the 

cattle-yard, 

And  the  white  horns  tossing  above 
the  wall. 

There  are  the  beehives  ranged  in  the 

sun; 

And  down  by  the  brink 
Of  the  brook  are  her  poor  flowers, 

weed-o'errun, 
Pansy  and  daffodil,  rose  and  pink. 

A  year  has  gone,  as  the  tortoise  goes, 

Heavy  and  slow  ; 
And  the  same   rose  blows,  and  the 

same  sun  glows, 

And  the  same  brook  sings  of  a  year 
ago. 

There's  the  same  sweet  clover-smell 

in  the  breeze; 
And  the  June  sun  warm 
Tangles  his  wings  of  fire  in  the  trees, 
Setting,    as    then,    over    Fernside 
farm. 

I  mind  me  how  with  a  lover's  care 

From  my  Sunday  coat 
I  brushed  off  the  burrs,  and  smoothed 

my  hair, 

And   cooled  at   the   brookside  my 
brow   and   throat. 

Since    we     parted,     a    month     had 

passed,—  r 
To  love,  a  year; 
Down  through  the  beeches  I  looked 

at  last 

On  the  little  red  gate  and  the  well- 
sweep  near. 

I  can  see  it  all  now,—  the  slantwise 

rain 

Of  light  through  the  leaves, 
The  sundown's  blaze  on  her  window- 


pane, 
he 


The  bloom  of  her  roses  under  the 
eaves. 

Just  the  same  as  a  month  before,  — 
The  house  and  the  trees, 


The  barn's  brown  gable,  the  vine  by 

the  door, — 

Nothing  changed  but  the  hives  of 
bees. 

Before  them,  under  the  garden  wall, 

Forward  and  back, 
Went  drearily  singing  the  chore-girl 

small, 

Draping  each  hive  with  a  shred  of 
black. 

Trembling,  I  listened:    the    summer 

sun 

Had  the  chill  of  snow; 
For  I  knew  she  was  telling  the  bees 

of  one 

Gone  on  the  journey  we  all  must 
go! 

Then  I   said  to  myself,  "My   Mary 

weeps 

For  the  dead  to-day: 
Haply  her  blind  old  grandsire  sleeps 
The  fret  and  the  pain  of  his  age 
away." 

But    her    dog    whined    low;    on    the 

doorway  sill, 

With  his  cane  to  his  chin, 
The  old  man  sat;  and  the  chore-girl 

still 

Sung  to  the  bees  stealing  out  and 
in. 

And  the  song  she  was  singing  ever 

since 

In  my  ear  sounds  on: — 
"  Stay  at  home,  pretty  bees,   fly  not 

hence ! 
Mistress  Mary  is  dead  and  gone !  " 


THE  SYCAMORES. 

IN  the  outskirts  of  the  village, 
On  the  river's  winding  shores, 

Stand  the  Occidental  plane-trees, 
Stand  the  ancient  sycamores. 

One  long  century    hath    been    num 
bered, 
And  another  half-way  told, 


THE  SYCAMORES. 


287 


Since  the  rustic  Irish  gleeman 
Broke  for  them  the  virgin  mould. 

Deftly  set  to  Celtic  music, 

At  his  violin's  sound  they  grew, 
Through  the  moonlit  eves  of  summer, 

Making  Amphion's  fable  true. 

Rise  again,  thou  poor  Hugh  Tallant ! 

Pass  in  jerkin  green  along, 
With  thy  eyes  brimful  of  laughter, 

And  thy  mouth  as  full  of  song. 

Pioneer  of  Erin's  outcasts, 
With  his  fiddle  and  his  pack; 

Little  dreamed  the  village  Saxons 
Of  the  myriads  at  his  back. 

How  he  wrought  with  spade  and  fid 
dle, 

Delved  by  day  and  sang  by  night, 
With  a  hand  that  never  wearied, 

And  a  heart  forever  light, — 

Still  the  gay  tradition  mingles 
With  a  record  grave  and  drear, 

Like  the  rolic  air  of  Cluny, 
With  the  solemn  march  of  Mear. 

When  the  box-tree,  white  with  blos 
soms, 
Made    the    sweet    May    woodlands 

glad, 

And  the  Aronia  by  the  river 
Lighted  up  the  swarming  shad, 

And  the  bulging  nets  swept  shore 
ward, 

With  their  silver-sided  haul. 
Midst  the  shouts  of  dripping  Ushers, 

He  was  merriest  of  them  all. 

When,  among  the  jovial  huskers, 
Love  stole  in  at  Labor's  side 

With  the  lusty  airs  of  England, 
Soft  his  Celtic  measures  vied. 

Songs  of  love  and  wailing  lyke-wake, 
And  the  merry  fair's  carouse; 

Of  the  wild  Red  Fox  of  Erin 
And  the  Woman  of  Three  Cows, 


By  the  blazing  hearths  of  winter, 
Pleasant  seemed  his  simple  tales, 

Midst  the  grimmer  Yorkshire  legends 
And  the  mountain  myths  of  Wales. 

How  the  souls  in  Purgatory 
Scrambled  up  from  fate  forlorn, 

On  St.  Keven's  sackcloth  ladder, 
Slyly  hitched  to  Satan's  horn. 

Of  the  fiddler  who  at  Tara 

Played  all  night  to  ghosts  of  kings ; 
Of  the  brown  dwarfs,  and  the  fairies 

Dancing  in  their   Moorland  rings! 

Jolliest  of  our  birds  of  singing, 
Best  he  loved  the  Bob-o-link. 

"  Hush  !  "  he  'd  say,  "  the  tipsy  fair 
ies! 
Hear  the  little  folks  in  drink !  " 

Merry-faced,  with  spade  and  fiddle, 
Singing  through  the  ancient  town, 

Only  this,  of  poor  Hugh  Tallant, 
Hath  Tradition  handed  down. 

Not  a  stone  his  grave  discloses ; 

But  if  yet  his  spirit  walks, 
'Tis  beneath  the  trees   he  planted, 

And  when  Bob-o-Lincoln  talks; 

Green  memorials  of  the  gleeman ! 

Linking  still  the  river-shores, 
With  their  shadows  cast  by  sunset, 

Stand    Hugh  Tallant's   sycamores ! 

When  the  Father  of  his  Country- 
Through     the     north-land     riding 

came, 
And    the    roofs    were    starred    with 

banners, 
And  the  steeples  rang  acclaim, — 

When  each  war-scarred  Continental, 
Leaving  smithy,  mill,  and  farm, 

Waved  his  rusted  sword  in  welcome, 
And  shot  off  his  old  king's  arm, — 

Slowly  passed  that  august  Presence 
Down   the  thronged  and   shouting 
street ; 


288 


HOME  BALLADS. 


Village  girls  as  white  as  angels, 
Scattering  flowers  around  his  feet. 

Midway,  where  the  plane-tree's  shad 
ow 

Deepest  fell,  his  rein  he  drew ; 
On  his  stately  head,  uncovered, 

Cool  and  soft  the  west-wind  blew. 

And  he  stood  up  in  his  stirrups, 
Looking  up  and  looking  down 

On  the  hills  of  Gold  and  Silver 
Rimming  round  the  little  town, — 

On  the  river,  full  of  sunshine, 
To  the  lap  of  greenest  vales 

Winding  down  from    wooded    head 
lands, 
Willow-skirted,  white  with  sails. 

And  he  said,  the    landscape    sweep 
ing 

Slowly  with  his  ungloved  hand, 
"  I  have  seen  no  prospect  fairer 

In  this  goodly  Eastern  land." 

Then  the  bugles  of  his  escort 
Stirred  to  life  the  cavalcade : 

And  that  head,  so  bare  and  stately, 
Vanished     down     the     depths     of 
shade. 

Ever  since,  in  town  and  farm-house, 
Life  has  had  its  ebb  and  flow ; 

Thrice  hath  passed  the  human  har 
vest 
To  its  garner  green  and  low. 

But  the  trees  the  gleeman  planted, 
Through  the    changes,    changeless 
stand ; 

As  the  marble  calm  of  Tadmor 
Marks  the  desert's  shifting  sand. 

Still  the  level  moon  at  rising 
Silvers  o'er  each  stately  shaft; 

Still  beneath  them,  half  in  shadow, 
Singing,  glides  the  pleasure  craft. 

Still  beneath  them,  arm-enfolded, 
Love  and  Youth  together  stray; 


While,  as  heart  to  heart  beats  faster, 
More  and  more  their  feet  delay. 

Where  the  ancient  cobbler,  Keezar, 
On  the  open  hillside  wrought, 

Singing,  as  he  drew  his  stitches, 
Songs  his  German  masters  taught,— 

Singing,  with  his  gray  hair  floating 
Round  his  rosy  ample  face, — 

Now  a  thousand  Saxon  craftsmen 
Stitch  and  hammer  in  his  place. 

All  the  pastoral  lanes  so  grassy 
•  Now  are  Traffic's  dusty  streets ; 

From  the  village,  grown  a  city, 
Fast  the  rural  grace  retreats. 

But,  still  green,  and  tall,  and  stately, 
On  the  river's  winding  shores, 

Stand  the  Occidental  plane-trees, 
Stand    Hugh    Tallant's    sycamores. 


THE  DOUBLE-HEADED  SNAKE 
OF  NEWBURY. 

"Concerning  ye  Amphisbaena,  as  soon  as 
I  received  your  commands,  I  made  diligent 
inquiry:  .  .  .  he  assures  me  yt  it  had  really 
two  heads,  one  at  each  end;  two  mouths,  two 
stings  or  tongs."— REV.  CHRISTOPHER TOPPAN 
to  COTTON  MATHER. 

FAR  away  in  the  twilight  time 
Of  every  people,  in  every  clime, 
Dragons    and    griffins    and    monsters 

dire, 

Born  of  water,  and  air,  and  fire, 
Or   nursed,   like  the    Python,   in   the 

mud 

And  ooze  of  the  old  Deucalion  flood, 
Crawl  and  wriggle    and    foam   with 

rage, 
Through    dusk    tradition    and    ballad 

age. 
So  from  the  childhood  of  Newbury 

town 
And  its  time  of  fable  the  tale  comes 

down 


THE  DOUBLE-HEADED  SNAKE  OF  NEWBURY. 


2SO 


Of  a  terror  which  haunted  bush  and 

brake, 
The  Amphisbaena,  the  Double  Snake! 


Thou  who  makest  the  tale  thy  mirth, 
Consider  that  strip  of  Christian  earth 
On  the  desolate  shore  of  a  sailless 

sea, 

Full  of  terror  and  mystery, 
Half-redeemed  from  the  evil  hold 
Of  the  wood  so  dreary,  and  dark,  and 

old, 
Which  drank  with  its  lips  of  leaves 

the  dew 
When    Time    was    young,    and   the 

world  was  new, 
And  wove  its  shadows  with  sun  and 

moon, 
Ere    the     stones     of     Cheops     were 

squared  and  hewn. 
Think  of  the  sea's  dread  monotone, 
Of  the  mournful  wail  from  the  pine- 
wood  blown, 
Of  the  strange,  vast  splendors  that  lit 

the  North, 
Of  the  troubled  throes  of  the  quaking 

earth, 

And  the  dismal  tales  the  Indian  told, 
Till  the  settler's  heart  at  his  hearth 

grew  cold, 

And  he  shrank  from  the  tawny  wiz 
ard's  boasts, 
And    the    hovering    shadows    seemed 

full  of  ghosts, 

And  above,  below,  and  on  every  side, 
The   fear  of  his  creed   seemed  veri 
fied;— 
And  think,  if  his  lot  were  now  thine 

own, 
To  grope  with  terrors  nor  named  nor 

known, 

How  laxer  muscle  and  weaker  nerve 
And  a  feebler  faith  thy  need  might 

serve ; 

And  own  to  thyself  the  wonder  more 
That  the  snake  had  two  heads,  and 
not  a  score! 


Whether  he  lurked  in  the  Oldtown 
fen 


Or  the  gray  earth-flax  of  the  Devil's 

Den, 

Or  swam  in  the  wooded  Artichoke, 
Or  coiled  by  the  Northman's  Written 

Rock, 

Nothing  on   record  is  left  to  show; 
Only  the  fact  that  he  lived,  we  know, 
And  left  the  cast  of  a  double  head 
In  the  scaly  mask  which  he  yearly 

shed. 
For  he  carried  a  head  where  his  tail 

should  be, 
And  the  two,  of  course,  could  never 

agree, 
But   wriggled  about  with  mam  and 

might, 

Now  to  the  left  and  now  to  the  right ; 
Pulling   and   twisting   this    way   and 

^  that, 
Neither  knew  what  the  other  was  at. 

A  snake  with  two  heads,  lurking  so 

near  I— 
Judge  of  the  wonder,   guess  at  the 

fear! 

Think  what  ancient  gossips  might  say, 
Shaking  their  heads  in  their  dreary 

way, 

Between  the  meetings    on    Sabbath- 
day! 

How  urchins,  searching  at  day's  de 
cline 
The  Common  Pasture  for  sheep  or 

kine, 

The  terrible  double-ganger  heard 
In  leafy  rustle  or  whir  of  bird ! 
Think  what  a  zest  it  gave  to  the  sport, 
In  berry-time,  of  the  younger  sort, 
As  over  pastures  blackberry-twined, 
Reuben  and  Dorothy  lagged  behind, 
And   closer    and   closer,   for   fear  of 

harm, 

The  maiden  clung  to  her  lover's  arm ; 
And  how  the  spark,  who  was  forced 

to  stay, 
By    his    sweetheart's    fears,    till    the 

break  of  day, 

Thanked  the  snake  for  the  fond  de 
lay! 

Far  and  wide  the  tale  was  told, 
Like  a    snowball    growing    while    it 
rolled. 


290 


HOME  BALLADS. 


The  nurse  hushed  with  it  the  baby's 

cry; 

And  it  served,  in  the  worthy  minis 
ter's  eye, 

To  paint  the  primitive  serpent  by. 
Cotton  Mather  came  galloping  down 
All  the  way  to  Newbury  town, 
With  his  eyes  agog  and  his  ears  set 

wide, 
And    his    marvellous    inkhorn  at  his 

side; 

Stirring  the  while  in  the  shallow  pool 
Of  his  brains  for  the  lore  he  learned 

at  school, 
To   garnish    the    story,    with   here   a 

streak 

Of  Latin,  and  there  another  of  Greek : 
And  the  tales  he  heard  and  the  notes 

he  took, 


Behold !  are  they  not  in  his  Wonder- 
Book? 

Stories,  like  dragons,  are  hard  to  kill. 
If  the  snake  does  not,  the  tale  runs 

still 
In    Byfield   Meadows,   on    Pipestave 

Hill. 

And  still,  whenever  husband  and  wife 
Publish  the  shame  of  their  daily  strife. 
And,  with  mad  cross-purpose,  tug 

and  strain 

At  either  end  of  the  marriage-chain, 
The  gossips  say,  with  a  knowing 

shake 
Of  their   gray  heads,  "Look  at  the 

Double  Snake! 
One  in  body  and  two  in  will, 
The  Amphisbaena  is  living  still!" 


THE  SWAN  SONG  OF  PARSON  AVERY. 

WHEN  the  reaper's  task  was  ended,  and  the  summer  wearing  late, 
Parson  Avery  sailed  from  Newbury,  with  his  wife  and  children  eight, 
Dropping  down  the  river-harbor  in  the  shallop  "  Watch  and  Wait." 

Pleasantly  lay  the  clearings  in  the  mellow  summer-morn, 

With  the  newly  planted  orchards  dropping  their  fruits  first-born, 

And  the  homesteads  like  green  islands  amid  a  sea  of  corn. 

Broad  meadows  reached  out  seaward  the  tided  creeks  between, 
And  hills  rolled  wave-like  inland,  with  oaks  and  walnuts  green ; — 
A  fairer  home,  a  goodlier  land,  his  eyes  had  never  seen. 

Yet  away  sailed  Parson  Avery,  away  where  duty  led, 

And  the  voice  of  God  seemed  calling,  to  break  the  living  bread 

To  the  souls  of  fishers  starving  on  the  rocks  of  Marblehead. 

All  day  they  sailed :  at  nightfall  the  pleasant  land-breeze  died, 
The  blackening  sky,  at  midnight,  its  starry  lights  denied 
And  far  and  low  the  thunder  of  tempest  prophesied ! 

Blotted  out  were  all  the  coast-lines,  gone  were  rock,  and  wood,  and  sand; 
Grimly  anxious  stood  the  skipper  with  the  rudder  in  his  hand, 
And  questioned  of  the  darkness  what  was  sea  and  what  was  land. 

And  the  preacher  heard  his  dear  ones,  nestled  round  him,  weeping  sore: 
"  Never  heed,  my  little  children !  Christ  is  walking  on  before 
To  the  pleasant  land  of  heaven,  where  the  sea  shall  be  no  more." 


THE  TRUCE  OF  PISCATAQUA.  291 

All  at  once  the  great  cloud  parted,  like  a  curtain  drawn  aside, 
To  let  down  the  torch  of  lightning  on  the  terror  far  and  wide; 
And  the  thunder  and  the  whirlwind  together  smote  the  tide. 

There  was  wailing  in  the  shallop,  woman's  wail  and  man's  despair, 
A  crash  of  breaking  timbers  on  the  rocks  so  sharp  and  bare, 
And,  through  it  all,  the  murmur  of  Father  Avery's  prayer. 

From  his  struggle  in  the  darkness  with  the  wild  waves  and  the  blast, 
On  a  rock,  where  every  billow  broke  above  him  as  it  passed, 
Alone,  of  all  his  household,  the  man  of  God  was  cast. 

There  a  comrade  heard  him  praying,  in  the  pause  of  wave  and  wind: 
"All  my  own  have  gone  before  me,  and  I  linger  just  behind; 
Not  for  life  I  ask,  but  only  for  the  rest  thy  ransomed  find ! 

"  In  this  night  of  death  I  challenge  the  promise  of  thy  word ! — 
Let  me  see  the  great  salvation  of  which  mine  ears  have  heard ! — 
Let  me  pass  from  hence  forgiven,  through  the  grace  of  Christ,  our  Lord ! 

"  In  the  baptism  of  these  waters  wash  white  my  every  sin, 
And  let  me  follow  up  to  thee  my  household  and  my  kin ! 
Open  the  sea-gate  of  thy  heaven,  and  let  me  enter  in !  " 

When  the  Christian  sings  his  death-song,  all  the  listening  heavens  draw  near, 

And  the  angels,  leaning  over  the  walls  of  crystal,  hear 

How  the  notes  so  faint  and  broken  swell  to  music  in  God's  ear. 

The  ear  of  God  was  opened  to  his  servant's  last  request; 

As  the  strong  wave  swept  him  downward  the  sweet  hymn  upward  pressed, 

And  the  soul  of  Father  A  very  went,  singing,  to  its  rest. 

There  was  wailing  on  the  mainland,  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead ; 
In  the  stricken  church  of  Newbury  the  notes  of  prayer  were  read ; 
And  long,  by  board  and  hearthstone,  the  living  mourned  the  dead. 

And  still  the  fishers  outbound,  or  scudding  from  the  squall, 

With  grave  and  reverent  faces,  the  ancient  tale  recall, 

When  they  see  the  white  waves  breaking  on  the  Rock  of  Avery's  Fall! 


THE  TRUCE  OF  PISCATAQUA. 
1675. 

RAZE  these  long  blocks  of  brick  and 

stone, 
These  hu°-e  mill-monsters  overgrown ; 


Where,  moved    like    living    shuttles, 

dwell 

The  weaving  genii  of  the  bell ; 
Tear  from  the  wild   Cocheco's  track 
The  dams  that  hold  its  torrents  back ; 
And  let  the  loud-rejoicing  fall 
Plunge,  roaring,  down  its  rocky  wall ; 


Blot  out  the  humbler  piles  as  well,      I  And  let  the  Indian's  paddle  play 


292 


HOME  BALLADS. 


On  the  unbridged  Piscataqua ! 
Wide  over  hill  and  valley  spread 
Once    more    the     forest,     dusk    and 

dread, 

With  here  and  there  a  clearing  cut 
From  the  walled   shadows   round  it 

shut; 
Each    with    its     farm-house    builded 

rude, 
By     English    yeoman     squared    and 

hewed, 
And  the  grim,  flankered  block-house 

bound 

With  bristling  palisades  around. 
So,  haply,  shall  before  thine  eyes 
The  dusty  veil  of  centuries  rise, 
The  old,  strange   scenery  overlay 
The  tamer  pictures  of  to-day, 
While,  like  the  actors  in  a  play, 
Pass  in  their  ancient  guise  along 
The  figures  of  my  border  song: 
What  time  beside  Cocheco's  flood 
The    white    man    and    the    red    man 

stood, 

With   words   of  peace   and   brother 
hood; 

When  passed  the  sacred  calumet 
From  lip  to  lip  with  fire-draught  wet, 
And,  puffed  in  scorn,  the  peace-pipe's 

smoke 
Through  the  gray  beard  of  Waldron 

broke, 
And    Squando's    voice,    in     suppliant 

plea 

For  mercy,  struck  the  haughty  key 
Of  one  who  held,  in  any  fate, 
His  native  pride  inviolate! 

"  Let  your  ears  be  opened  wide ! 
He  who  speaks  has  never  lied. 
Waldron  of  Piscataqua, 
Hear  what  Squando  has  to  say! 


"  Squando  shuts  his  eyes  and  sees, 
Far  off,  Saco's  hemlock-trees. 
In  his  wigwam,  still  as  stone, 
Sits  a  woman  all  alone, 

"  Wampum  beads  and  birchen  strands 
Dropping  from  her  careless  hands, 


Listening  ever  for  the  fleet 
Patter  of  a  dead  child's  feet ! 

"  When  the  moon  a  year  ago 
Told  the  flowers  the  time  to  blow, 
In  that  lonely  wigwam  smiled 
Menewee,  our  little  child. 

"  Ere  that  moon  grew  thin  and  old, 
He  was  lying  still  and  cold ; 
Sent  before  us,  weak  and  small, 
When  the  Master  did  not  call ! 

"  On  his  little  grave  I  lay ; 
Three  times  went  and  came  the  day; 
Thrice  above  me  blazed  the  noon, 
Thrice  upon  me  wept  the  moon. 

"  In  the  third  night-watch  I  heard, 
Far  and  low,  a  spirit-bird ; 
Very  mournful,  very  wild, 
Sang  the  totem  of  my  child. 

i     ,.i     :.  H    -     LI 
"'  Menewee,  poor  Menewee, 
Walks  a  path  he  cannot  see: 
Let  the  white  man's  wigwam  light 
With  its  blaze  his  steps  aright. 

" '  All  un-called,  he  dares  not  show 
Empty  hands  to  Manito: 
Better  gifts  he  cannot  bear 
Than  the  scalps  his  slayers  wear.' 

"  All  the  while  the  totem  sang, 
Lightning  blazed  and  thunder  rang; 
And  a  black  cloud,  reaching  high, 
Pulled  the  white  moon  from  the  sky. 

"  I,  the  medicine-man,  whose  ear 
All  that  spirits  hear  can  hear,— 
I,  whose  eyes  are  wide  to  see 
All  the  things  that  are  to  be,— 

"  Well  I  knew  the  dreadful  signs 
In  the  whispers  of  the  pines, 
In  the  river  roaring  loud, 
In  the  mutter  of  the  cloud. 

"  At  the  breaking  of  the  day, 
From  the  grave  I  passed  away; 


THE  TRUCE  OF  PISCATAQUA. 


293 


Flowers    bloomed    round    me,    birds 

sang  glad, 
But  my  heart  was  hot  and  mad. 

"There  is  rust  on  Squando's  knife, 
From  the  warm,  red  springs  of  life; 
On  the  funeral  hemlock-trees 
Many  a  scalp  the  totem  sees. 

"  Blood  for  blood !    But  evermore 
Squando's  heart  is  sad  and  sore ; 
And  his  poor  squaw  waits  at  home 
For  the  feet  that  never  come ! 

"  Waldron  of  Cocheco,  hear ! 
Squando  speaks,  who  laughs  at  fear; 
Take  the  captives  he  has  ta'en ; 
Let  the  land  have  peace  again !  " 

As  the  words  died  on  his  tongue, 
Wide  apart  his  warriors  swung; 
Parted,  at  the  sign  he  gave, 
Right  and  left,  like  Egypt's  wave. 

And,  like  Israel  passing  free 
Through  the  prophet-charmed  sea, 
Captive  mother,  wife,  and  child 
Through  the  dusky  terror  filed. 

One  alone,  a  little  maid, 
Middleway  her  steps  delayed, 
Glancing,  with  quick,  troubled  sight, 
Round  about  from  red  to  white. 

Then  his  hand  the  Indian  laid 
On  the  little  maiden's  head, 
Lightly  from  her  forehead  fair 
Smoothing  back  her  yellow  hair. 


"  Gift  or  favor  ask  I  none ; 
What  I  have  is  all  my  own : 
Never  yet  the  birds  have  sung, 
'  Squando  hath  a  beggar's  tongue.' 

"  Yet  for  her  who  waits  at  home, 
For  the  dead  who  cannot  come, 
Let  the  little  Gold-hair  be 
In  the  place  of  Menewee! 


"  Mishanock,  my  little  star ! 
Come  to  Saco's  pines  afar; 
Where  the  sad  one  waits  at  home, 
Wequashim,  my  moonlight,   come !  " 

"What!"  quoth  Waldron,  "leave  a 

child 

Christian-born  to  heathens  wild? 
As  God  lives,  from  Satan's  hand 
I  will  pluck  her  as  a  brand !  " 

"  Hear   me,  white  man !  "    Squando 

cried; 

"  Let  the  little  one  decide. 
Wequashim,  my  moonlight,  say, 
Wilt  thou  go  with  me,  or  stay  ?  " 

Slowly,  sadly,  half  afraid, 
Half  regretfully,  the  maid 
Owned  the  ties  of  blood  and  race, — 
Turned     from     Squando's     pleading 
face. 

Not  a  word  the  Indian  spoke. 
But  his  wampum  chain  he  broke, 
And  the  beaded  wonder  hung 
On  that  neck  so  fair  and  young. 

Silence-shod,  as  phantoms  seem 
In  the  marches  of  a  dream, 
Single-filed,  the  grim  array 
Through  the  pine-trees  wound  away. 

Doubting,  trembling,  sore  amazed. 
Through   her   tears   the  young  child 

gazed. 

"God  preserve  her!"  Waldron  said; 
"  Satan  hath  bewitched  the  maid!  " 

Years  went  and  came.     At  close  of 

day 

Singing  came  a  child  from  play, 
Tossing  from  her  loose-locked  head 
Gold  in  sunshine,  brown  in  shade. 

Pride  was  in  the  mother's  look, 
But    her   head   she   gravely   shook, 
And  with  lips  that  fondly  smiled 
Feigned  to  chide  her  truant  child. 


294 


HOME  BALLADS. 


Unabashed,  the  maid  began: 
"  Up  and  down  the  brook  I  ran, 
Where,  beneath  the  bank  so  steep, 
Lie  the  spotted  trout  asleep. 

"'Chip!'  went  squirrel  on  the  wall, 
After  me  I  heard  him  call, 
And  the  cat-bird  on  the  tree 
Tried  his  best  to  mimic  me. 

"Where  the  hemlocks  grew  so  dark 
That  I  stopped  to  look  and  hark, 
On  a  log,  with  feather-hat, 
By  the  path,  an  Indian  sat. 

"  Then  I  cried,  and  ran  away ; 
But  he  called,  and  bade  me  stay; 
And  his  voice  was  good  and  mild 
As  my  mother's  to  her  child. 

"  And  he  took  my  wampum  chain, 
Looked  and  looked  it  o'er  again ; 
Gave  me  berries,  and,  beside, 
On  my  neck  a  plaything  tied." 

Straight  the  mother  stooped  to  see 
What  the  Indian's  gift  might  be. 
On  the  braid  of  Wampum  hung, 
Lo !  a  cross  of  silver  swung. 

Well  she  knew  its  graven  sign, 
Squando's   bird  and  totem  pine; 
And,  a  mirage  of  the  brain, 
Flowed  her  childhood  back  again. 

Flashed     the      roof      the      sunshine 

through, 

Into  space  the  walls  outgrew; 
On  the  Indian's  wigwam-mat, 
Blossom-crowned,  again  she  sat. 

Cool  she  felt  the  west-wind  blow, 
In  her  ear  the  pines  sang  low, 
And,  like  links  from  out  a  chain, 
Dropped  the  years  of  care  and  pain. 

From  the  outward  toil  and  din, 
From  the  griefs  that  gnaw  within, 
To  the  freedom  of  the  woods 
Called    the    birds,    and    winds,    and 
floods. 


Well,  O  painful  minister! 
Watch  thy  flock,  but  blame  not  her, 
If   her   ear   grew   sharp   to   hear 
All  their  voices  whispering  near. 

Blame  her  not,  as  to  her  soul 
All  the  desert's  glamour  stole, 
That  a  tear  for  childhood's  loss 
Dropped  upon  the  Indian's  cross. 

When,  that  night,  the  Book  was  rea 
And  she  bowed  her  widowed  head, 
And  a  prayer  for  each  loved  name 
Rose  like  incense  from  a  flame, 

To  the  listening  ear  of  Heaven, 
Lo !  another  name  was  given : 
"  Father,  give  the  Indian  rest ! 
Bless  him!  for  his  love  has  blest!" 


MY   PLAYMATE. 

THE  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill, 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low ; 

The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet, 
The  orchard  birds  sang  clear; 

The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day 
It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 

For,  more  to  me  than  birds  or  flow= 

ers, 

My  playmate  left  her  home, 
And    took    with    her    the    laughing 

spring, 
The  music  and  the  bloom. 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin. 
She  laid  her  hand  in  mine : 

What  more  could  ask  the  bashful  boy 
Who  fed  her  father's  kine? 

She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May : 
The  constant  years  told  o'er 

Their  seasons    with    as    sweet    May 

morns, 
But  she  came  back  no  more. 


THE   SHADOW  AND  THE  LIGHT. 


205 


I  walk,  with  noiseless  feet,  the  round 

Of  uneventful  years; 
Still  o'er  and  o'er  I  sow  the  spring 

And  reap  the  autumn  ears. 

She  lives  where  all  the  golden  year 

Her  summer  roses  blow ; 
The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 

Before  her  come  and  go. 

There  haply  with  her  jewelled  hands 
She.  smooths  her  silken  gown, — 

No  more  the  homespun  lap  wherein 
I  shook  the  walnuts  down. 

The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the  brook, 
The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill, 

And  still  the  May-day  flowers  make 

sweet 
The  woods  of  Follymill. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 
The  bird  builds  in  the  tree, 

The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth  hill 
The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 

I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them, 
And  how  the  old  time  seems, — 


If  ever  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  sounding  in  her  dreams. 

I  see  her  face,  I  hear  her  voice : 
Does  she  remember  mine? 

And  what  to  her  is  now  the  boy 
Who  fed  her  father's  kine? 

What  cares  she  that  the  orioles  build 
For  other  eyes  than  ours, — 

That  other  hands  with  nuts  are  filled, 
And  other  laps  with  flowers? 

O  playmate  in  the  golden  time! 

Our  mossy  seat  is  green, 
Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet, 

The  old  trees  o'er  it  lean. 

The  winds  so   sweet  with  birch  and 
fern 

A  sweeter  memory  blow ; 
And  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sin^j 

The  song  of  long  ago. 

And  still  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  moaning  like  the  sea, — 

The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 
Between  myself  and  thee! 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


THE  SHADOW  AND  THE 
LIGHT. 

"And  I  sought,  whence  is  Evil:  I  set  before 
the  eye  of  my  spirit  the  whole  creation;  what 
soever  we  see  therein, — sea,  earth,  air,  stars, 
trees,  moral  creatures, — yea,  whatsoever  there 
is  we  do  not  see,— angels  and  spiritual  powers. 
Where  is  evil,  and  whence  comes  it,  since  God 
the  Good  hath  created  all  things?  Why  made 
He  anything  at  all  of  evil,  and  not  rather  by 
His  Almightiness  cause  it  not  to  be?  These 
thoughts  I  turned  in  my  miserable  heart,  over 
charged  with  most  gnawingcares."  "And,  ad 
monished  to  return  to  myself,  I  entered  even 
into  my  inmost  soul,  Thou  being  my  guide, 
and  beheld  even  beyond  my  soul  and  mind 


tlie  I-ight  unchangeable.  He  who  knows  the 
Truth  knows  what  that  Light  is,  and  he  that 
knows  it  knows  Eternity!  O  Truth,  who  art 
Eternity!  Love,  who  art  Truth!  Eternity, 
who  art  Love!  And  I  beheld  that  Thou  madest 
all  things  good,  and  to  Thee  is  nothing  what 
soever  evil.  From  the  angel  to  the  worm, 
from  the  first  motion  to  the  last,  Thou  settest 
each  in  its  place,  and  everything  is  good  in  its 
kind.  Woe  is  me! — how  high  art  Thou  in  the 
highest,  how  deep  in  the  deepest!  and  Thou 
never  departest  from  us  and  we  scarcely  return 
to  Thee."—  Augustine's  Soliloquies,  Book 


THE  fourteen  centuries  fall  away 
Between  us  and  the  Afric  saint, 


296 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


And  at  his  side  we  urge,  to-day, 
The  immemoria.1  quest  and  old  com 
plaint. 

No  outward  sign  to  us  is  given, — 
From    sea    or    earth     comes     no 

reply; 
Hushed  as    the    warm    Numidian 

heaven 

He    vainly     questioned     bends    our 
frozen  sky. 

No    victory    comes     of     all     o 

strife, — 
From  all  we  grasp  the  meaning 

slips ; 

The  Sphinx  sits  at  the  gate  of  life, 

With  the  old  question  on  her  awful 

lips. 

In  paths  unknown  we  hear  the  feet 

Of  fear  before,  and  guilt  behind; 

We  pluck  the  wayside  fruit,  and  eat 

Ashes   and   dust  beneath   its   golden 

rind. 

From     age    to     age    descends    un 
checked 

The  sad  bequest  of  sire  to  son, 
The   body's   taint,    the   mind's    de 
fect,— 

Through  every  web  of  life  the  dark 
threads  run. 

O,  why  and  whither?— God  knows 

all; 

I  only  know  that  he  is  good, 
And  that  whatever  may  befall 
Or  here  or  there,  must  be  the  best 
that  could. 

Between  the  dreadful  cherubim 

A  Father's  face  I  still  discern, 
As  Moses  looked  of  old  on  him, 
And  saw    his    glory    into    goodness 
turn! 

For  he  is  merciful  as  just; 

And  so,  by  faith  correcting  sight, 
I  bow  before  his  will,  and  trust 
Howe'er  they  seem  he  doeth  all  things 
right. 


And  dare  to  hope  that  he  will  make 
The  rugged  smooth,  the  doubtful 

plain; 

His  mercy  never  quite  forsake; 
His  healing  visit  every  realm  of  pain; 

That  suffering  is  not  his   revenge 
Upon   his    creatures    weak    and 

frail, 

Sent  on  a  pathway  new  and  strange 
With  feet  that  wander  and  with  eyes 
that  fail; 

That,  o'er  the  crucible  of  pain, 

Watches  the  tender  eye  of  Love 
The  slow  transmuting  of  the  chain 
Whose  links  are  iron  below  to  gold 
above ! 

Ah  me!  we  doubt  the  shining  skies, 
Seen    through     our    shadows    of 

offence, 
And  drown  with  our  poor  childish 

cries 

The    cradle-hymn    of    kindly    Provi 
dence. 

And  still  we  love  the  evil  cause, 

And  of  the  just  effect  complain; 
We  tread  upon  life's  broken  laws, 
And   murmur     at    our    self-inflicted 
pain; 

We  turn  us  from  the  light,  and  find 
Our    spectral    shapes    before     us 

thrown, 

As  they  who  leave  the  sun  behind 
Walk  in  the  shadows  of  themselves 
alone. 

And  scarce  by  will  or  strength  of 

ours 

We  set  our  faces  to  the  day; 
Weak,  wavering,  blind,  the  Eternal 

Powers 

Alone    can    turn   us    from    ourselves 
away. 

Our  weakness  is  the  strength  of  sin, 
But  love  must  needs  be  stronger 

far. 

Outreaching  all  and  gathering  in 
The  erring  spirit  and  the  wandering 
star. 


THE  GIFT  OF  TRITEMIUS. 


297 


A  Voice  grows  with  the  growing 

years; 
Earth,  hushing  down  her  bitter 

cry, 
Looks  upward  from  her  graves,  and 

hears, 

"  The  Resurrection  and  the  Life  am 
I." 

O    Love    Divine! — whose    constant 

beam 
Shines  on  the  eyes  that  will  not 

see, 
And   waits   to  bless    us,   while  we 

dream 

Thou  leavest  us  because  we  turn  from 
thee! 

All  souls  that  struggle  and  aspire, 
All  hearts  of  prayer  by  thee  are 

lit; 
And,  dim  or  clear,  thy  tongues  of 

fire 

On    dusky   tribes    and   twilight    cen 
turies  sit. 

Nor  bounds,  nor  clime,  nor  creed 

thou  know'st, 

Wide  as  our  need  thy  favors  fall ; 
The  white  wings  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
Stoop,  seen  or  unseen,  o'er  the  heads 
of  all. 

O  Beauty,  old  yet  ever  new! 

Eternal  Voice,  and  Inward  Word, 
The  Logos  of  the  Greek  and  Jew, 
The  old  sphere-music  which  the  Sa- 
mian  heard! 

Truth   which  the   sage   and   prophet 

saw, 
Long  sought  without,  but  found 

within, 

The  Law  of  Love  beyond  all  law, 
The   Life   o'erflooding  mortal   death 
and  sin! 

Shine  on  us  with  the   light  which 

glowed 

Upon    the     trance-bound     shep 
herd's  way, 

Who  saw  the  Darkness  overflowed 


And  drowned  by  tides  of  everlasting 
Day. 

Shine,  light  of  God! — make  broad 

thy  scope 

To  all  who  sin  and  suffer;  more 
And  better  than  we  dare  to  hope 
With  Heaven's  compassion  make  our 
longings  poor! 


THE  GIFT  OF  TRITEMIUS. 

TRITEMIUS  OF  HERBIPOLIS,  one  day, 
While  kneeling  at  the  altar's  foot  to 

pray, 
Alone   with   God,   as   was   his   pious 

choice, 
Heard    from    without    a    miserable 

voice, 
A    sound    which    seemed    of   all    sad 

things  to  tell, 
As  of  a  lost  soul  crying  out  of  hell. 

Thereat  the  Abbot  paused;  the  chain 

whereby 
His  thoughts  went  upward  broken  by 

that  cry; 
And,  looking  from  the  casement,  saw 

below 
A  wretched  woman,   with  gray  hair 

a-flow, 
And  withered  hands  held  up  to  him, 

who  cried 
For  alms  as  one  who  might  not  be 

denied. 

She  cried,  "  For  the  dear  love  of  Him 

who  gave 
His    life    for    ours,    my    child    from 

bondage  save, — 
My  beautiful,  brave  first-born,  chained 

with  slaves 
In  the  Moor's  galley,  where  the  sun- 

smit  waves 
Lap   the    white   walls    of   Tunis !  "— 

"  What  I  can 
I      give,"      Tritemius      said :       "  My 

prayers." — "  O  man 
Of  God!"  she  cried,  for    grief    had 

made  her  bold, 


298 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


"  Mock    me    not    thus ;     I    ask   not 

prayers,  but  gold. 
Words  will  not  serve  me,  alms  alone 

suffice ; 
Even   while    I    speak   perchance    my 

first-born  dies." 

"Woman!"      Tritemius      answered, 

"  from  our  door 
None  go  unfed ;  hence  are  we  always 

poor: 

A  single  soldo  is  our  only  store. 
Thou    hast   our   prayers ; — what    can 

we  give  thee  more?  " 

"  Give  me,"  she  said,  "  the  silver  can 
dlesticks 

On  either  side  of  the  great  crucifix. 

God  well  may  spare  them  on  his 
errands  sped, 

Or  he  can  give  you  golden  ones  in 
stead." 

Then  spake  Tritemius,  "  Even  as  thy 

word, 
Woman,  so  be  it!  (Our  most  gracious 

Lord, 

Who  loveth  mercy  more  than  sacri 
fice, 

Pardon  me  if  a  human  soul  I  prize 
Above  the  gifts  upon  his  altar  piled!) 
Take  what  thou  askest,  and  redeem 
thy  child." 

But  his  hand  trembled  as  the  holy 
alms 

He  placed  within  the  beggar's  eager 
palms; 

And  as  she  vanished  down  the  linden 
shade, 

He  bowed  his  head  and  for  forgive 
ness  prayed. 

So  the  day  passed,  and  when  the  twi 
light  came 

He  woke  to  find  the  chapel  all  aflame, 

And,  dumb  with  grateful  wonder,  to 
behold 

Upon  the  altar  candlesticks  of  gold! 


THE  EVE  OF  ELECTION. 

FROM   gold  to  gray 

Our  mild  sweet  day 
Of  Indian  Summer  fades  t&o  soon ; 

But    tenderly 

Above  the  sea 
Hangs,  white  and  calm,  the  hunter's 


In  its  pale  fire, 

The  village  spire 
Shows  like  the  zodiac's  spectral  lance ; 

The  painted  walls 

Whereon  it  falls 
Transfigured  stand  in  marble  trance! 

O'er  fallen  leaves 

The  west-wind  grieves, 
Yet  comes  a  seed-time  round  again ; 

And  morn  shall  see 

The  State  sown  free 
With  baleful  tares  or  healthful  grain. 

Along  the  street 

The  shadows  meet 
Of  Destiny,  whose  hands  conceal 

The  moulds  of  fate 

That  shape  the  State, 
And  make  or  mar  the  common  weal. 

Around  I  see 

The  powers  that  be; 
I  stand  by  Empire's  primal  springs; 

And  princes  meet 

In  every  street, 

And    hear    the  tread    of    uncrowned 
kings ! 

Hark!   through  the  crowd 

The  laugh  runs  loud, 
Beneath  the  sad,  rebuking  moon. 

God  save  the  land 

A  careless  hand 

May  shake  or  swerve  ere  morrow's 
noon ! 

No   jest  is  this; 
One  cast  amiss 


THE  OVER-HEART. 


May  blast  the  hope  of  Freedom's  year. 

O,  take  me  where 

Are  hearts  of  prayer, 
And    foreheads    bowed    in    reverent 
fear! 

Not  lightly  fall 

Beyond  recall 
The  written  scrolls  a  breath  can  float ; 

The  crowning  fact, 

The  kingliest  act 
Of  Freedom  is  the  freeman's  vote! 

For  pearls  that  gem 

A  diadem 
The  diver  in  the  deep  sea  dies; 

The  regal  right 

We  boast  to-night 
Is  ours  through  costlier  sacrifice; 

The  blood  of  Vane, 

His  prison  pain 
Who  traced  the  path  the  Pilgrim  trod, 

And  hers  whose  faith 

Drew  strength  from  death, 
And  prayed  her  Russell  up  to  God! 

Our  hearts  grow  cold, 

We  lightly  hold 

A    right   which   brave   men   died   to 
gain; 

The  stake,  the  cord, 

The  axe,  the  sword, 
Grim  nurses  at  its  birth  of  pain. 

The  shadow  rend, 
And  o'er  us  bend, 
O    martyrs,    with   your    crowns   and 

palms,— 

Breathe  through  these  throngs 
Your   battle   songs, 
Your  scaffold  prayers,  and  dungeon 
psalms! 

Look  from  the  sky, 

Like  God's   great  eye, 
Thou   solemn  moon,   with  searching 
beam; 

Till  in  the  sight 

Of  thy  pure  light 
Our  mean  self-seekings  meaner  seem. 


Shame  from  our  hearts 

Unworthy  arts, 

The    fraud    designed,    the     purpose 
dark; 

And  smite  away 

The  hands  we  lay 
Profanely  on  the  sacred  ark. 

To  party  claims 

And  private  aims, 
Reveal  that  august  face  of  Truth, 

Whereto  are  given 

The  age  of  heaven, 
The  beauty  of  immortal  youth. 

So  shall  our  voice 

Of  sovereign  choice 
Swell  the  deep  bass  of  duty  done, 

And  strike  the  key 

Of  time  to  be, 

When  God  and  man  shall  speak  as 
one! 


THE  OVER-HEART. 

"For  of  Him,  and  through  Him,  and  to  Him 
are  all  things,  to  whom  be  glory  foreverl" — 
PAUL. 

ABOVE,  below,  in  sky  and  sod, 

In  leaf  and  spar,  in  star  and  man, 
Well  might  the  wise  Athenian  scan 

The  geometric  signs  of  God, 

The  measured  order  of  his  plan. 

And  India's  mystics  sang  aright 
Of  the  One  Life  pervading  all, — 
One  Being's  tidal  rise  and  fall 

In    soul   and    form,     in    sound    and 

sight, — 
Eternal  outflow  and  recall. 

God  is :  and  man  in  guilt  and  fear 
The  central  fact  of  Nature  owns ; — 
Kneels,    trembling,    by    his    altar- 
stones, 

And  darkly  dreams  the  ghastly  smear 
Of  blood  appeases  and  atones. 

Guilt  shapes  the  Terror:  deep  within 
The  human  heart  the  secret  lies 


300 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


Of  all  the  hideous  deities; 
And,  painted  on  a  ground  of  sin, 
The  fabled  gods  of  torment  rise! 

And  what  is  He?— The    ripe    grain 

nods, 
The    sweet    dews    fall,    the    sweet 

flowers  blow; 
But    darker    signs     his     presence 

show: 
The    earthquake  and  the   storm   are 

God's, 
And  good  and  evil  interflow. 

O  hearts  of  love!     O  souls  that  turn 
Like   sunflowers   to   the   pure   and 

best! 

To  you  the  truth  is  manifest: 
For  they  the  mind  of  Christ  discern 
Who    lean    like    John     upon     his 
breast ! 

In  him  of  whom  the  sibyl  told, 
For  whom  the  prophet's  harp  was 

toned, 
Whose  need  the  sage  and  magian 

owned, 

The  loving  heart  of  God  behold, 
The     hope     for     which     the    ages 
groaned ! 

Fade,  pomp  of  dreadful  imagery 
Wherewith  mankind  have  deified 
Their   hate,    and    selfishness,     and 
pride ! 

Let  the  scared  dreamer  wake  to  see 
The  Christ  of  Nazareth  at  his  side! 

What    doth     that     holy     Guide     re 
quire?— 

No  rite  of  pain,  nor  gift  of  blood, 
But  man  a  kindly  brotherhood, 

Looking,  where  duty  is  desire, 
To  him,  the  beautiful  and  good. 

Gone  be  the  faithlessness  of  fear, 
And  let  the  pitying  heaven's  sweet 

rain 
Wash  out  the  altar's  bloody  stain; 


The  law  of  Hatred  disappear, 
The  law  of  Love  alone  remain. 

How  fall  the  idols  false  and  grim! — 
And  lo!  their  hideous  wreck  above 
The  emblems  of  the  Lamb  and 

Dove! 
Man  turns  from  God,  not  God  from 

him; 

And    guilt,    in    suffering,    whispers 
Love! 

The  world  sits  at  the  feet  of  Christ, 
Unknowing,  blind,  and  unconsoled; 
It   yet   shall    touch    his    garment's 
fold, 

And  feel  the  heavenly  Alchemist 
Transform  its  very  dust  to  gold. 

The  theme  befitting  angel  tongues 
Beyond     a     mortal's      scope     has 

grown. 
O   heart   of  mine!    with   reverence 

own 

The  fulness  which  to  it  belongs, 
And    trust    the    unknown    for    the 
known. 


IN  REMEMBRANCE  OF  JO 
SEPH  STURGE. 

IN  the  fair   land  o'erwatched  by  Is- 

chia's  mountains, 
Across  the  charmed  bay 
Whose  blue  waves  keep  with  Capri's 

silver  fountains 
Perpetual  holiday, 

A    king    lies    dead,    his    wafer    duly 

eaten, 

His  gold-bought  masses  given ; 
And  Rome's  great  altar  smokes  with 

gums  to  sweeten 
Her  foulest  gift  to  Heaven. 

And   while   all    Naples    thrills     with 

mute  thanksgiving, 
The  court  of  England's  queen 


IN  REMEMBRANCE  OF  JOSEPH  STURGE. 


301 


For   the    dead   monster    so   abhorred 

while  living 
In  mourning  garb  is  seen. 

With  a  true  sorrow  God  rebukes  that 

feigning; 

By  lone  Edgbaston's  side 
Stands  a  great  city  in  the  sky's  sad 

raining, 
Bare-headed  and  wet-eyed! 

Silent  for  once  the  restless  hive  of 

labor, 

Save  the  low  funeral  tread, 
Or  voice  of  craftsman  whispering  to 

his  neighbor 
The  good  deeds  of  the  dead. 

For   him   no   minster's   chant   of  the 

immortals 

Rose  from  the  lips  of  sin ; 
No    mitred   priest    swung    back    the 

heavenly  portals 
To  let  the  white  soul  in. 

But  Age  and  Sickness  framed  their 

tearful  faces 
In  the  low  hovel's  door, 
And  prayers   went  up   from   all  the 

dark  by-places 
And  Ghettos  of  the  poor. 

The    pallid     toiler     and     the     negro 

chattel, 

The  vagrant  of  the  street, 
The  human  dice  wherewith  in  games 

of  battle 
The  lords  of  earth  compete, 

Touched  with  a  grief  that  needs  no 

outward  draping, 
All  swelled  the  long  lament, 
Of  grateful  hearts,  instead  of  marble, 

shaping 
His  viewless  monument! 

For  never  yet,  with  ritual  pomp  and 

splendor, 
In  the  long  heretofore, 


heart  more  loyal,  warm,  and  true, 

and  tender, 
Has  England's  turf  closed  o'er. 

And  if  there  fell  from  out  her  grand 

old  steeples 

No  crash  of  brazen  wail, 
The    murmurous    woe   of    kindreds, 

tongues,  and  peoples 
Swept  in  on  every  gale. 

It    came     from     Holstein's    birchen- 
belted  meadows, 
And  from  the  tropic  calms 
Of    Indian    islands    in   the    sun-smit 

shadows 
Of  Occidental  palms; 

From   the  locked   roadsteads  of  th< 

Bothnian  peasants, 
And  harbors  of  the  Finn, 
Where   war's   worn   victims   saw   his 

gentle  presence 
Come  sailing,  Christ-like,  in, 

To   seek  the   lost,   to  build   the   ol/ 

waste  places, 

To  link  the  hostile  shores 
Of  severing  seas,  and  sow  with  Eng 

land's  daisies 
The  moss  of  Finland's  moors. 

Thanks  for  the  good  man's  beautiful 

example, 

Who  in  the  vilest  saw 
Some    sacred    crypt    or    altar    of    *• 

temple 
Still  vocal  with  God's  law; 

And  heard  with  tender  ear  the  spirit 

sighing 

As  from  its  prison  cell, 
Praying  for  pity,  like  the  mournfti1 

crying 
Of  Jonah  out  of  hell. 

Not  his  the  golden  pen's  or  lip's  per 

suasion, 
But  a  fine  sense  of  right, 


302 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


And  Truth's  directness,  meeting  eacl 

occasion 
Straight  as  a  line  of  light. 

His    faith    and    works,  like  stream 

that  intermingle, 
In  the  same  channel  ran: 
The  crystal  clearness  of  an  eye  kep 

single 
Shamed  all  the  frauds  of  man. 

The  very  gentlest  of  all  human  na 
tures 

He  joined  to  courage  strong, 
And  love  outreaching  unto  all  God's 

creatures 
With  sturdy  hate  of  wrong. 

Tender    as    woman;    manliness    a.id 

meekness 

In  him  were  so  allied 
That   they   who   judged   him   by  his 

strength  or  weakness 
Saw  but  a  single  side. 

Men  failed,  betrayed  him,  but  his  zeal 

seemed  nourished 
By  failure  and  by  fall; 
Still  a  large  faith  in  human-kind  he 

cherished, 
And  in  God's  love  for  all. 

And  now  he  rests :  his  greatness  and 

his  sweetness 

No  more  shall  seem  at  strife: 
And    death    has    moulded   into    calm 

completeness 
The  statue  of  his  life. 

Where  the  dews  glisten  and  the  song 
birds  warble, 
His  dust  to  dust  is  laid, 
In  Nature's  keeping,  with  no  pomp  of 

marble 
To  shame  his  modest  shade. 

The  forges  glow,  the  hammers  all  are 

ringing; 
Beneath  its  smoky  vale, 


Hard  by,  the  city  of  his  love  is  swing 
ing 
Its  clamorous  iron  flail. 

But  round  his  grave  are  quietude  and 
beauty, 

And  the  sweet  heaven  above, — 
The  fitting  symbols  of  a  life  of  duty 

Transfigured  into  love! 


TRINITAS. 

AT  morn  I  prayed,  "  I  fain  would  see 
How    Three    are    One,    and    One    is 

Three; 
Read  the  dark  riddle  unto  me." 

I  wandered  forth,  the  sun  and  air 
I  saw  bestowed  with  equal  care 
On  good  and  evil,  foul  and  fair. 

No  partial  favor  dropped  the  riin; — 
Alike  the  righteous  and  profane 
Rejoiced  above  their  heading  grain. 

And  my  heart  murmured,  "  Is  it  meet 
That   blindfold    Nature    thus    should 

treat 
With     equal     hand     the     tares     and 

wheat?" 

A     presence     melted     through     my 

mood, — 

A  warmth,  a  light,  a  sense  of  good, 
.ike  sunshine  through  a  winter  wood. 

saw  that  presence,  mailed  complete 
n  her  white  innocence,  pause  to  greet 
A  fallen  sister  of  the  street. 

Jpon  her  bosom  snowy  pure 
~he  lost  one  clung,  as  if  secure 
rom  inward  guilt  or  outward  lure. 

Beware!  "  I  said;  "  in  this  I  see 
vlo  gain  to  her,  but  loss  to  thee : 
Who     touches     pitch     defiled     must 
be." 


THE  OLD  BURYING-GROUND. 


303 


I  passed  the  haunts  of  shame  and  sin, 
And  a  voice  whispered,  "  Who  therein 
Shall    these    lost    souls    to    Heaven's 
peace  win? 

"  Who   there  shall  hope  and  health 

dispense, 

And  lift  the  ladder  up  from  thence 
Whose  rounds  are  prayers  of  peni 
tence  ?  " 

I  said,  "  No  higher  life  they  know ; 
These  earth-worms  love  to  have  it  so. 
Who   stoops  to   raise  them  sinks  as 
low." 

That  night  with  painful  care  I  read 
What  Hippo's  saint  and  Calvin  said, — 
The  living  seeking  to  the  dead! 

In  vain  I  turned,  in  weary  quest, 
Old    pages,    where    (God    give    them 

rest!) 
The  poor  creed-mongers  dreamed  and 

guessed. 

And  still  I  prayed,  "  Lord,  let  me  see 
How  Three  are  One,  and  One  is 

Three; 
Read  the  dark  riddle  unto  me!" 

Then    something    whispered,    "  Dost 

thou  pray 

For  what  thou  hast?  This  very  day 
The  Holy  Three  have  crossed  thy 

way. 

"  Did  not  the  gifts  of  sun  and  air 

To  good  and  ill  alike  declare 

The  all-compassionate  Father's  care? 

"  In  the  white  soul  that  stooped  to 

raise 

The  lost  one  from  her  evil  ways, 
Thou  saw'st  the  Christ,  whom  angels 

praise! 

"  A  bodiless  Divinity, 

The  still  small  Voice  that  spake  to 

thee 
Was  the  Holy  Spirit's  mystery! 


"  O    blind    of    sight,    of    faith    liow 

small! 

Father,  and  Son,  and  Holy  Call ; — 
This  day  thou  hast  denied  them  all! 

"  Revealed  in  love  and  sacrifice, 
The  Holiest  passed  before  thine  eyes, 
One  and  the  same,  in  threefold  guise. 

"  The  equal  Father  in  rain  and  sun, 
His  Christ  in  the  good  to  evil  done, 
His   Voice   in    thy     soul; — and    the 
Three  are  One!  " 

I  shut  my  grave  Aquinas  fast; 
The  monkish  gloss  of  ages  past, 
The  schoolman's  creed  aside  I  cast. 

And  my  heart  answered,  "  Lord,  I  see 
How   Three   are    One,    and    One    is 

Three; 
Thy  riddle  hath  been  read  to  me! " 


THE    OLD    BURYING-GROUND. 

OUR  vales  are  sweet  with  fern  and 
rose, 

Our  hills  are  maple-crowned; 
But  not  from  them  our  fathers  chose 

The  village  burying-ground. 

The  dreariest  spot  in  all  the  land 
To-  Death  they  set  apart; 

With    scanty   grace     from     Nature's 

hand, 
And  none  from  that  of  Art. 

A  winding  wall  of  mossy  stone, 
Frost-flung  and  broken,  lines 

A  lonesome  acre  thinly  grown 
With  grass  and  wandering  vines. 

Without  the  wall  a  birch-tree  shows 
Its  drooped  and  tasselled  head; 

Within,  a  stag-horned  sumach  grows, 
Fern-leafed,  with  spikes  of  red. 

There,  sheep  that  graze  the  neighbor 
ing  plain 

Like  white  ghosts  come  and  go, 
The   farm-horse    drags    his     fetlock 

chain, 
The  cow-bell  tinkles  slow. 


304 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


Low  moans  the  river  from  its  bed, 

The  distant  pines   reply; 
Like  mourners    shrinking    from  the 
dead, 

They  stand  apart  and  sigh. 

Unshaded  smites  the  summer  sun, 
Unchecked  the  winter  blast; 

The   school-girl   learns  the  place   to 

shun, 
With  glances  backward  cast. 

For  thus  our  fathers  testified, — 
That  he  might  read  who  ran, — 

The  emptiness  of  human  pride, 
The  nothingness  of  man. 

They  dared  not  plant  the  grave  with 
flowers, 

Nor  dress  the  funeral  sod, 
Where,  with  a  love  as  deep  as  ours, 

They  left  their  dead  with  God. 

The  hard  and  thorny  path  they  kept 
From  beauty  turned  aside; 

Nor  missed  they  over  those  who  slept 
The  grace  to  life  denied. 

Yet  still  the  wilding  flowers  would 
blow, 

The  golden  leaves  would  fall, 
The  seasons  come,  the  seasons  go, 

And  God  be  good  to  all. 

Above  the  graves  the  blackberry  hung 
In  bloom  and  green  its  wreath, 

And  harebells  swung  as  if  they  rung 
The  chimes  of  peace  beneath. 

The  beauty  Nature  loves  to  share, 
The  gifts  she  hath  for  all, 

The^  common  light,  the  common  air, 
O'ercrept  the  graveyard's  wall. 

It  knew  the  glow  of  eventide, 
The  sunrise  and  the  noon, 

And  glorified  and  sanctified 
It  slept  beneath  the  moon. 


With  flowers  or  snow-flakes  for  its 
sod, 

Around  the  seasons  ran, 
And  evermore  the  love  of  God 

Rebuked  the  fear  of  man. 

We  dwell  with  fears  on  either  hand, 

Within  a  daily  strife, 
And  spectral  problems  waiting  stand 

Before  the  gates  of  life. 

The  doubts  we  vainly  seek  to  solve, 
The  truths  we  know,  are  one ; 

The  known   and  nameless   stars   re 
volve 
Around  the  Central  Sun. 

And  if  we  reap  as  we  have  sown, 
And  take  the  dole  we  deal, 

The  law  of  pain  is  love  alone, 
The  wounding  is  to  heal. 

Unharmed  from  change  to  change  we 
glide, 

We  fall  as  in  our  dreams ; 
The  far-off  terror  at  our  side 

A  smiling  angel  seems. 

Secure  on  God's  all-tender  heart 
Alike  rest  great  and  small; 

Why  fear  to  lose  our  little  part, 
When  he  is  pledged  for  all? 

O  fearful  heart  and  troubled  brain! 

Take  hope  and  strength  from  this, — 
That  Nature  never  hints  in  vain, 

Nor  prophesies  amiss. 

Her  wild  birds  sing  the  same  sweet 
stave, 

Her  lights  and  airs  are  given 
Alike  to  playground  and  the  grave; 

And  over  both  is  Heaven. 


THE  PIPES  AT  LUCKNOW. 

PIPES  of  the  misty  moorlands, 
Voice  of  the  glens  and  hills; 

The  droning  of  the  torrents, 
The  treble  of  the  rills! 


MY  PSALM. 


305 


Not  the  braes  of  broom  and  heather, 
Nor  the  mountains  dark  with  rain, 

Nor  maiden  bower,  nor  border  tower, 
Have  heard  your  sweetest  strain! 

Dear  to  the  Lowland  reaper, 

And  plaided  mountaineer, — 
To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 

The  Scottish  pipes  are  dear; — 
Sweet  sounds  the  ancient  pibroch 

O'er  mountain,  loch,  and  glade; 
But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 

The  Pipes  at  Lucknow  played, 

Day  by  day  the  Indian  tiger 

Louder  yelled,  and  nearer  crept; 
Round  and  round  the  jungle-serpent 

Near  and  nearer  circles  swept. 
"  Pray  for   rescue,  wives  and  moth 
ers,— 

.  Pray  to-day!  "  the  soldier  said; 
"  To-morrow,  death  's  between  us 
And     the    wrong    and    shame     we 
dread." 

O,  they  listened,  looked,  and  waited, 

Till  their  hope  became  despair; 
And  the  sobs  of  low  bewailing 

Filled  the  pauses  of  their  prayer. 
Then  up  spake  a  Scottish  maiden, 

With  her  ear  unto  the  ground: 
"  Dinna  ye  hear  it  ? — dinna  ye  hear 
it? 

The  pipes  o'  Havelock  sound ! " 

Hushed  the  wounded  man  his  groan 
ing; 

Hushed  the  wife  her  little  ones ; 
Alone  they  heard  the  drum-roll 

And  the  roar  of  Sepoy  guns. 
But  to  sounds  of  home  and  childhood 

The  Highland  ear  was  true; — 
As  her  mother's  cradle-crooning 

The  mountain  pipes  she  knew. 

Like  the  march  of  soundless  music 
Through  the  vision  of  the  seer, 

More  of  feeling  than  of  hearing, 
Of  the  heart  than  of  the  ear, 

She  knew  the  droning  pibroch, 
She  knew  the  Campbell's  call: 


'  Hark!  hear  ye  no'  MacGregor's,— 
The  grandest  o'  them  all !  " 

,  they  listened,  dumb  and  breathless, 

And  they  caught  the  sound  at  last ; 
Faint  and  far  beyond  the  Goomtee 

Rose  and  fell  the  piper's  blast! 
Then  a  burst  of  wild  thanksgiving 

Mingled  woman's  voice  and  man's ; 

God    be    praised! — the    March    of 
Havelock ! 

The  piping  of  the  clans!  " 

Louder,  «nearer,  fierce  as  vengeance, 

Sharp  and  shrill  as  swords  at  strife, 
Came  the  wild  MacGregor's  clan-call, 

Stinging  all  the  air  to  life. 
But  when  the  far-off  dust-cloud 

To  plaided  legions  grew, 
Full  tenderly  an4.blithesomefy 

The  pipes  of  rescue  blew! 

Round  the  silver  domes  of  Lucknow, 

Moslem  mosque  and  Pagan  shrine, 
Breathed  the  air  to  Britons  dearest, 

The  air  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 
O'er  the  cruel  roll  of  war-drums 

Rose    that     sweet    and    home-like 

strain ; 
And  the  tartan  clove  the  turban, 

As  the  Goomtee  cleaves  the  plain. 

Dear  to  the  corn-land  reaper 

And  plaided  mountaineer, — 
To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 

The  piper's  song  is  dear. 
Sweet  sounds  the  Gaelic  pibroch 

O'er  mountain,  glen,  and  glade; 
But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 

The  Pipes  at  Lucknow  played! 


MY  PSALM. 


I  MOURN  no  more  my  vanished  years 

Beneath  a  tender  rain, 
An  April  rain  of  smiles  and  tears, 

My  heart  is  young  again. 


306 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


The  west-winds  blow,   and,    singing 
low, 

I  hear  the  glad  streams  run; 
The  windows  of  my  soul  I  throw 

Wide  open  to  the  sun. 

No  longer  forward  nor  behind 
I  look  in  hope  or  fear; 

But,  grateful,  take  the  good  I  find, 
The  best  of  now  and  here. 

I  plough  no  more  a  desert  land, 
To  harvest  weed  and  tare; 

The    manna    dropping    from    God's 

hand 
Rebukes  my  painful  care. 

I  break  my  pilgrim  staff, — I  lay 

Aside  the  toiling  oar ; 
The  angel  sought  so  far  away 

I  welcome  at  my  door. 

The  airs  of  spring  may  never  play 
Among  the  ripening  corn, 

Nor  freshness  of  the  flowers  of  May 
Blow  through  the  autumn  morn; 

Yet  shall  the  blue-eyed  gentian  look 
Through  fringed  lids  to  heaven, 

And  the  pale  aster  in  the  brook 
Shall  see  its  image  given; — 

The  woods  shall  wear  their  robes  of 
praise, 

The  south-wind  softly  sigh, 
And  sweet,  calm  days  in  golden  haze 

Melt  down  the  amber  sky. 

Not  less  shall  manly  deed  and  word 
Rebuke  an  age  of  wrong; 

The  graven  flowers  that  wreathe  the 

sword 
Make  not  the  blade  less  strong. 

But    smiting    hands    shall     learn     to 
heal,— 

To  build  as  to  destroy; 
Nor  less  my  heart  for  others  feel 

That  I  the  more  enjoy. 


All  as  God  wills,  who  wisely  heeds 

To  give  or  to  withhold, 
And  knoweth  more  of  all  my  needs 

Than  all  my  prayers  have  told! 

Enough  that  blessings  undeserved 

Have  marked  my  erring  track; — 
That     wheresoe'er     my     feet     have 

swerved, 

His       chastening       turned       me 
back ; — 

That  more  and  more  a  Providence 

Of  love  is  understood, 
Making  the  springs  of  time  and  sense 

Sweet  with  eternal  good; — 

That  death  seems  but  a  covered  way 
Which  opens  into  light, 

Wherein  no  blinded  child  can  stray 
Beyond  the  Father's  sight; — 

That  care  and  trial  seem  at  last, 
Through  Memory's  sunset  air, 

Like  mountain-ranges  overpast, 
In  purple  distance  fair ; — 

That  all  the  jarring  notes  of  life 
Seem  blending  in  a  psalm, 

And  all  the  angles  of  its  strife 
Slow  rounding  into  calm. 

And  so  the  shadows  fall  apart, 
And  so  the  west-winds  play; 

And  all  the  windows  of  my  heart 
I  open  to  the  day. 


LE   MARAIS    DU   CYGNE. 

A  BLUSH  as  of  roses 

Where  rose  never  grew! 
Great  drops  on  the  bunch-grass, 

But  not  of  the  dew! 
A  taint  in  the  sweet  air 

For  wild  bees  to  shun! 
A  stain  that  shall  never 

Bleach  out  in  the  sun! 


"THE  ROCK"  IN  EL  GHOR. 


307 


Back,  steecf  of  the  prairies! 

Sweet  song-bird,  fly  back! 
Wheel  hither,  bald  vulture! 

Gray  wolf,  call  thy  pack! 
The  foul  human  vultures 

Have   feasted  and   fled; 
The  wolves  of  the  Border 

Have  crept  from  the  dead. 

From  the  hearths  of  their  cabins, 

The  fields  of  their  corn, 
Unwarned  and  unweaponed, 

The  victims  were  torn, — 
By  the  whirlwind  of  murder 

Swooped  up  and  swept  on 
To  the  low,  reedy  fen-lands, 

Th6  Marsh  of  the  Swan. 

With  a  vain  plea  for, mercy 

No  stout  knee  was  crooked; 
In  the  mouths  of  the  rifles 

Right  manly  they  looked. 
How  paled  the  May  sunshine, 

O  Marais  du  Cygne! 
On  death  for  the  strong  life, 

On  red  grass  for  green! 

In  the  homes  of  their  rearing, 

Yet  warm  with  their  lives, 
Ye  wait  the  dead  only, 

Poor  children  and  wives! 
Put  out  the  red  forge-fire, 

The  smith  shall  not  come; 
Unyoke  the  brown  oxen, 

The  ploughman  lies  dumb. 

Wind  slow  from  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

O  dreary  death-train, 
With  pressed  lips  as  bloodless 

As  lips  of  the  slain! 
Kiss  down  the  young  eyelids, 

Smooth  down  the  gray  hairs; 
Let  tears  quench  the  curses 

That  burn  through  your  prayers. 

Strong  men  of  the  prairies, 

Mourn  bitter  and  wild! 
Wail,  desolate  woman! 

Weep,  fatherless  child! 
But  the  grain  of  God  springs  up 

From  ashes  beneath, 


And  the  crown  of  his  harvest 
Is  life  out  of  death. 

Not  in  vain  on  the  dial 

The  shade  moves  along, 
To  point  the  great  contrasts 

Of  right  and  of  wrong: 
Free  homes  and  free  altars, 

Free  prairie  and  flood, — 
The  reeds  of  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

Whose  bloom  is  of  blood! 

On  the  lintels  of  Kansas 

That  blood  shall  not  dry; 
Henceforth  the  Bad  Angel 

Shall  harmless  go  by; 
Henceforth  to  the  sunset, 

Unchecked  on  her  way, 
Shall  Liberty  follow 

The  march  of  the  day. 


"THE  ROCK"  IN  EL  GHOR. 

DEAD  Petra  in  her  hill-tomb  sleeps, 
Her  stones  of  emptkiess  remain ; 

Around      her      sculptured      mystery 

sweeps 
The  lonely  waste  of  Edom's  plain. 

From   the    doomed    dwellers    in    the 

cleft 
The  bow  of  vengeance  turns  not 

back; 

Of  all  her  myriads  none  are  left 
Along  the  Wady  Mousa's  track. 

Clear  in  the  hot  Arabian  day 

Her    arches     spring,     her    statues 
climb ; 

Unchanged,  the  graven  wonders  pay 
No  tribute  to  the  spoiler,  Time! 

Unchanged  the  awful  lithograph 
Of  power  and  glory  undertrod, — 

Of  nations  scattered  like  the  chaff 
Blown  from  the  threshing-floor  of 
God. 

Yet  shall  the  thoughtful  stranger  turn 
From   Petra's   gates,    with    deeper 
awe 


308 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


To  mark  afar  the  burial  urn 
Of  Aaron  on  the  cliffs  of  Hor ; 

And  where  upon  its  ancient  guard 
Thy    Rock,    El    Ghor,    is    standing 

yet,— 

Looks  from  its  turrets  desertward, 
And  keeps  the  watch  that  God  has 
set. 

The  same  as  when  in  thunders  loud 
It  heard  the  voice  of  God  to  man,— 

As  when  it  saw  in  fire  and  cloud 
The  angels  walk  in  Israel's  van! 

Or  when  from  Ezion-Geber's  way 
It  saw  the  long  procession  file, 

And  heard  the  Hebrew  timbrels  play 
The  music  of  the  lordly  Nile; 

Or  saw  the  tabernacle  pause, 

Cloud-bound,  by   Kadesh  Barnea's 
wells, 

While  Moses  graved  the  sacred  laws, 
And  Aaron  swung  his  golden  bells. 

Rock  of  the  desert,  prophet-sung! 

How   grew    its    shadowing   pile    at 

length, 
A  symbol,  in  the  Hebrew  tongue, 

Of  God's  eternal  love  and  strength. 

On  lip  of  bard  and  scroll  of  seer, 
From   age  to   age  went  down  the 

name, 

Until  the  Shiloh's  promised  year, 
And   Christ,   the    Rock    of    Ages, 
came! 

The  path  of  life  we  walk  to-day 
Is    strange    as    that    the    Hebrews 

trod; 
We    need    the    shadowing    rock,  as 

they,— 

We  need,  like  them,  the  guides  of 
God. 

God  send  his  angels,  Cloud  and  Fire, 
To  lead  us  o'er  the  desert  sand! 

God  give  our  hearts  their  long  desire, 
His  shadow  in  a  weary  land! 


ON  A  PRAYER-BOOK, 

WITH    ITS     FRONTISPIECE,     ARY     SCHEF- 

FER'S       "  CHRISTUS       CONSOLATOR," 

AMERICANIZED   BY    THE   OMISSION    OF 
THE  BLACK   MAN. 

O  ARY  SCHEFFER!  when  beneath  thine 

eye, 
Touched  with  the  light  that  cometh 

from  above, 
Grew  the  sweet  picture  of  the  dear 

Lord's  love, 
No  dream  hadst  thou  that  Christian 

hands  would  tear 
Therefrom  the  token    of    his    equal 

care, 
And  make  thy  symbol  of  his  truth 

a  lie! 
The  poor,  dumb  slave  whose  shackles 

fall  away 
In  his  compassionate  gaze,  grubbed 

smoothly  out, 

To  ;mar  no  more  the  exercise  de 
vout 
Of  sleek  oppression  kneeling  down  to 

pray 

Where  the  great  oriel  stains  the  Sab 
bath  day! 

Let  whoso  can  before  such  praying- 
books 
Kneel  on  his  velvet  cushion;  I,  for 

one, 
Would  sooner  bow,  a  Parsee,  to  the 

sun, 
Or  tend  a  prayer-wheel  in  Thibetan 

brooks, 

Or  beat  a  drum  on  Yedo's  temple- 
floor. 
No    falser    idol    man  has    bowed 

before, 
In  Indian  groves   or  islands   of  the 

sea, 
Than     that     which     through     the 

quaint-carved  Gothic  door 
Looks  forth, — a  Church  without  hu 
manity! 

Patron  of  pride,  and  prejudice,  and 
wrong, — . 


ON  A  PRAYER-BOOK. 


309 


The  rich  man's  charm  and  fetish  of 

the  strong, 
The  Eternal  Fulness  meted,  clipped, 

and  shorn, 
The   seamless    robe   of   equal   mercy 

torn, 

The  dear  Christ  hidden  from  his  kin 
dred  flesh, 
And,     in     his     poor    ones,    crucified 

afresh ! 
Better  the    simple    Lama    scattering 

wide, 
Where  sweeps  the  storm  Alechan's 

steppes  along, 

His  paper  horses  for  the  lost  to  ride, 
And    wearying     Buddha     with     his 

prayers  to  make 
The  figures  living  for  the  traveller's 

sake, 
Than  he  who  hopes  with  cheap  praise 

to  beguile 
The  ear  of  God,  dishonoring  man  the 

while ; 
Who  dreams  the  pearl  gate's  hinges, 

rusty  grown, 
Are  moved  by  flattery's  oil  of  tongue 

alone ; 
That    in    the    scale    Eternal    Justice 

bears 
The  generous  deed  weighs  less  than 

selfish  prayers, 

And  words  intoned  with  graceful  unc 
tion  move 
The    Eternal    Goodness     more    than 

lives  of  truth  and  love. 
Alas,     the     Church!— The     reverend 

head  of  Jay, 
Enhaloed  with  its   saintly  silvered 

hair, 
Adorns  no  more  the  places  of  her 

prayer ; 
And   brave    young    Tyng,    too    early 

called  away, 
Troubles  the  Haman  of  her  courts 

no  more 

Like  the  just  Hebrew  at  the  Assyri 
an's  door; 
And  her  sweet  ritual,  beautiful  but 

dead 


As  the  dry  husk  from  which  the 
grain  is  shed, 

And  holy  hymns   from  which  the 
life  devout 

Of  saints  and  martyrs  has  wellnigh 
gone  out, 

Like  candles  dying  in  exhausted 
air, 

For  Sabbath  use  in  measured  grists 
are  ground; 

And,  ever  while  the  spiritual  mill 
goes  round, 

Between  the  upper  and  the  nether 
stones, 

Unseen,    unheard,     the     wretched 

bondman  groans, 

And   urges   his    vain    plea,    prayer- 
smothered,  anthem-drowned! 
O    heart   of   mine,    keep   patience! — 
Looking  forth, 

As  from  the  Mount  of  Vision,  I  be 
hold, 

Pure,  just,  and  free,  the  Church  of 
Christ  on  earth, — • 

The  martyr's  dream,  the  golden  age 

foretold! 

And  found,  at  last,  the  mystic  Graal 
I  see, 

Brimmed   with   His   blessing,   pass 
from  lip  to  lip 

In  sacred  pledge  of  human  fellow 
ship  ; 

And  over  all  the  songs  of  angels 
hear, — • 

Songs  of  the  love  that  casteth  out 
all  fear, — 

Songs   of   the   Gospel  of   Human 
ity! 

Lo!   in  the  midst,   with  the  same 
look  he  wore, 

Healing  and  blessing  on  Genesaret's 
shore, 

Folding  together,  with  the  all-ten 
der  might 

Of  his  great  love,  the  dark  hands  and 
the  white, 

Stands  the  Consoler,  soothing  every 

pain, 

Making  all  burdens  light,  and  break 
ing  every  chain. 


310 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


TO   J.   T.   F. 

ON   A   BLANK   LEAF   OF   "  POEMS    PRINT 
ED,   NOT   PUBLISHED/' 

WELL  thought!  who  would  not  rather 

hear 
The   songs   to   Love  and   Friendship 

sung 
Than  those  which  move  the  stranger's 

tongue, 
And  feed  his  unselected  ear? 

Our  social  joys  are  more  than  fame; 
Life  withers  in  the  public  look. 
Why  mount  the  pillory  of  a  book, 
Or  barter  comfort  for  a  name? 

Who  in  a  house  of  glass  would  dwell, 
With  curious  eyes  at  every  pane? 
To  ring  him  in  and  out  again, 
Who  wants  the  public  cryer's  bell? 

To  see  the  angel  in  one's  way, 
Who  waits  to  play  the  ass's  part, — 
Bear  on  his  back  the  wizard  Art, 
And  in  his  service  speak  or  bray  ? 

And    who   his    manly    locks    would 

shave, 

And  quench  the  eyes  of  common  sense 
To    share   the   noisy   recompense 
That  mocked  the  shorn  and  blinded 

slave  ? 

The  heart  has  needs  beyond  the  head, 

And,  starving  in  the  plentitude 

Of  strange  gifts,  craves  its  common 

food, — 
Our  human  nature's  daily  bread. 

We  are  but  men :  no  gods  are  we, 
To  sit  in  mid-heaven,  cold  and  bleak, 
Each  separate,  on  his  painful  peak, 
Thin-cloaked   in    self-complacency! 

Better  his  lot  whose  axe  is  swung 
In    Wartburg    woods,    or    that   poor 

girl's 

Who  by  the  Ilm  her  spindle  whirls 
And  sings  the  songs  that  Luther  sung, 


Than  his  who,  old,  and  cold,  and  vain. 
At  Weimar   sat,  a  demigod, 
And  bowed  with  Jove's  imperial  nod 
His  votaries  in  and  out  again! 

Ply,  Vanity,  thy  winged  feet! 
Ambition,  hew  thy  rocky  stair! 
Who   envies   him   who   feeds  on  air 
The  icy  splendor  of  his  seat! 

I  see  your  Alps,  above  me,  cut 
The  dark,  cold  sky;  and  dim  and  lone 
I    see   ye   sitting, — stone   on    stone, — 
With  human  senses  dulled  and  shut. 

I  could  not  reach  you,  if  I  would, 
Nor  sit  among  your  cloudy  shapes; 
And  (spare  the  fable  of  the  grapes 
And  fox)  I  would  not  if  I  could. 

Keep  to  your  lofty  pedestals! 
The  safer  plain  below  I  choose : 
Who  never  wins  can  rarely  lose, 
Who  never  climbs  as  rarely  falls. 

Let  such  as  love  the  eagle's  scream 
Divide  with  him  his  home  of  ice: 
For  me  shall  gentler  notes  suffice, — 
The  valley-song  of  bird  and  stream; 

The  pastoral  bleat,  the  drone  of  bees, 
The   flail-beat   chiming   far   away, 
The  cattle-low,  at  shut  of  day, 
The  voice  of  God  in  leaf  and  breeze! 

Then  lend  thy  hand,  my  wiser  friend, 
And  help  me  to  the  vales  below, 
(In  truth,  I  have  not  far  to  goj 
Where  sweet  with  flowers  the  fields 
extend. 


THE  PALM-TREE. 

Is  it  the  palm,  the  cocoa-palm, 

On  the  Indian    Sea,  by  the   isles  of 

balm? 
Or  is  it  a  ship  in  the  breezeless  calm? 


LINES. 


31 1 


A  ship  whose  keel  is  of  palm  beneath, 
Whose  ribs  of  palm  have  a  palm-bark 

sheath, 
And  a  rudder  of  palm  it  steereth  with. 

Branches  of  palm  are  its  spars  and 

rails, 

Fibers  of  palm  are  its  woven  sails, 
And  the   rope  is   of  palm  that  idly 

trails! 

What    does   the    good    ship   bear    so 

well? 

The  cocoa-nut  with  its  stony  shell, 
And  the  milky  sap  of  its  inner  cell. 

What  are  its  jars,  so  smooth  and  fine, 
But  hollowed  nuts,  filled  with  oil  and 

wine, 
And  the  cabbage  that  ripens  under  the 

Line? 

Who   smokes  his  nargileh,  cool  and 

calm? 
The  master,  whose  cunning  and  skill 

could  charm 
Cargo  and  ship  from  the  bounteous 

palm. 

In  the  cabin  he  sits  on  a  palm-mat 

soft, 
From  a  beaker  of  palm  his  drink  is 

quaffed, 
And  a  palm-thatch  shields  from  the 

sun  aloft! 

His  dress  is  woven  of  palmy  strands, 
And  he  holds  a  palm-leaf  scroll  in  his 

hands, 

Traced  with  the  Prophet's  wise  com 
mands  ! 

The  turban  folded  about  his  head 
Was   daintily  wrought  of  the  palm- 
leaf  braid, 

And  the  fan  that  cools  him  of  palm 
was  made. 

Of  threads  of  palm  was  the  carpet 
spun 


Wheron  he  kneels  when  the  day  is 

done, 
And  the  foreheads  of  Islam  are  bowed 

as  one! 

To  him  the  palm  is  a  gift  divine- 
Wherein  all  uses  of  man  combine, — 
House,  and  raiment,  and  food,  and 
wine! 

And,  in  the  hour  of  his  great  release, 
His    need    of    the    palm    shall    only 

cease 
With  the  shroud  wherein  he  lieth  in 

peace. 

"  Allah  il  Allah!  "  he  sings  his  psalm, 
On  the  Indian  Sea,  by  the  isles  of 

balm; 
"Thanks    to    Allah    who    gives    the 

palm!" 


LINES, 

READ  AT  THE  BOSTON  CELEBRATION  OF 
THE  HUNDREDTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF 
THE  BIRTH  OF  ROBERT  BURNS,  2$TH 
1ST  MO.,  1859. 

How  sweetly  come  the  holy  psalms 

From  saints  and  martyrs  down. 
The  waving  of  triumphal  palms 

Above  the  thorny  crown! 
The  choral  praise,  the  chanted  prayers 

From  harps  by  angels  strung, 
The     hunted     Cameron's     mountain 
airs, 

The  hymns  that  Luther  sung! 

Yet,  jarring  not  the  heavenly  notes, 

The  sounds  of  earth  are  heard, 
As  through  the  open  minster  floats 

The  song  of  breeze  and  bird! 
Not  less  the  wonder  of  the  sky 

That  daisies  bloom  below; 
The  brook  sings  on,  though  loud  and 
high 

The  cloudy  organs  blow! 


312 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


And,  if  the  tender  ear  be  jarred 

That,  haply,  hears  by  turns 
The  saintly  harp  of  Olney's  bard, 

The  pastoral  pipe  of  Burns, 
No  discord  mars  His  perfect  plan 

Who  gave  them  both  a  tongue; 
For  he  who  sings  the  love  of  man 

The  love  of  God  hath  sung! 

To-day  be  every  fault  forgiven 

Of  him  in  whom  we  joy! 
We  take,    with  thanks,  the  gold  of 
Heaven 

And  leave  the  earth's  alloy. 
Be  ours  his  music  as  of  spring, 

His  sweetness  as  of  flowers, 
The   songs   the   bard    himself   might 
sing 

In  holier  ears  than  ours. 

Sweet  airs  of  love  and  home,  the  hum 

Of  household  melodies, 
Come  singing,  as  the  robins  come 

To  sing  in  door-yard  trees. 
And,    heart    to    heart,    two    nations 
lean, 

No  rival  wreaths   to   twine, 
But  blending  in  eternal  green 

The  holly  and  the  pine! 


THE  RED    RIVER    VOYAGEUR. 

OUT  and  in  the  river  is  winding 
The  links  of  its  long,  red  chain 

Through  belts  of  dusky  pine-land 
And  gusty  leagues  of  plain. 

Only,   at  times,  a   smoke-wreath 
With      the      drifting      cloud-rack 
joins,— 

The  smoke  of  the  hunting-lodges 
Of  the  wild  Assiniboins! 

Drearily  blows  the  north-wind 
From  the  land  of  ice  and  snow ; 

The   eyes    that   look   are   weary, 
And  heavy  the  hands  that  row. 


And  with  one  foot  on  the  water, 

And  one  upon  the  shore, 
The  Angel  of  Shadow  gives  warning 

That  day  shall  be  no  more. 

Is  it  the  clang  of  wild-geese? 

Is  it  the  Indian's  yell, 
That  lends  to  the  voice  of  the  north- 
wind 

The  tones  of  a  far-off  bell? 

The  voyageur  smiles  as  he  listens 
To  the  sound  that  grows  apace; 

Well  he  knows  the  vesper  ringing 
Of  the  bells  of  St.  Boniface. 

The  bells  of  the  Roman  Mission, 
That  call  from  their  turrets  twain, 

To   the  boatman   on   the   river, 
To    the   hunter   on   the   plain! 

Even  so  in  our  mortal  journey 
The  bitter  north-winds  blow, 

And  thus  upon  life's  Red  River 
Our  hearts,  as  oarsmen,  row. 

And  when  the  Angel  of  Shadow 
Rests  his  feet  on  wave  and  shore, 

And  our  eyes  grow  dim  with  watch 
ing 
And  our  hearts  faint  at  the  oar, 

Happy  is  he  who  heareth 

The  signal  of  his  release 
In  the  bells  of  the  Holy  City, 

The  chimes  of  eternal  peace! 


KENOZA  LAKE. 

As  Adam  did  in  Paradise, 

To-day  the  primal  right  we  claim: 
Fair  mirror  of  the  woods  and  skies, 

We  give  to  thee  a  name. 

Lake  of  the  pickerel! — let  no  more 
The   echoes    answer   back,   "  Great 
Pond," 

But  sweeet  Kenoza,  from  thy  shore 
And  watching  hills  beyond, 


TO  G.  B.  C. 


313 


Let  Indian  ghosts,  if  such  there  be 
Who  ply     unseen    their     shadowy 
lines, 

Call  back  the  ancient  name  to  thee, 
As  with  the  voice  of  pines. 

The  shores  we  trod  as  barefoot  boys, 
The     nutted     woods  we  wandered 
through, 

To  friendship,  love,  and  social  joys 
We  consecrate  anew. 

Here  shall  the  tender  song  be  sung, 
And  memory's  dirges  soft  and  low, 

And  wit  shall  sparkle  on  the  tongue, 
And  mirth  shall  overflow, 

Harmless  as  summer  lightning  plays 
From  a  low,  hidden  cloud  by  night, 

A   light  to   set   the  hills  ablaze, 
But  not  a  bolt  to  smite. 

In  sunny  South  and  prairied  West 
Are     exiled     hearts     remembering 

still, 
As  bees    their    hive,    as    birds    their 

nest, 
The  homes  of  Haverhill. 

They  join  us  in  our  rites  to-day; 

And,  listening,  we  may  hear,  ere 
long, 
From  inland  lake  and  ocean  bay, 

The  echoes  of  our  song. 

Kenoza'  o'er  no  sweeter  lake 

Shall  morning  break  or  noon-cloud 
sail, — 

No  fairer  face  than  thine  shall  take 
The  sunset's  golden  veil. 

Long  be  it  ere  the  tide  of  trade 
Shall  break  with  harsh-resounding 
din 

The  quiet  of  thy  banks  of  shade, 
And  hills  that  fold  thee  in. 

Still  let  thy  woodlands  hide  the  hare, 
The  shy  loon  sound  his  trumpet- 
note; 


Wing-weary  from  his  fields  of  air, 
The  wild-goose  on  the  float. 

Thy  peace  rebuke  our  feverish  stir, 
Thy  beauty  our  deforming  strife; 

Thy  woods  and  waters  minister 
The  healing  of  their  life. 

And  sinless  Mirth,  from  care  re 
leased, 

Behold,  unawed,  thy  mirrored  sky, 
Smiling  as  smiled  on  Cana's  feast 

The  Master's  loving  eye. 

And   when   the    summer   day   grows 

dim, 
And    light   mists    walk   thy   mimic 

sea, 

Revive  in  us  the  thought  of  Him 
Who  walked  on  Galilee! 


TO  G.  B.  C 

So    spake   Esaias:    so,    in   words    of 

flame, 
Tekoa's      prophet-herdsman      smote 

with  blame 
The  traffickers   in  men,  and  put   to 

shame, 

All  earth  and  heaven  before, 
The  sacerdotal  robbers  of  the  poor. 

All  the  dread  Scripture  lives  for  thee 

again, 
To  smite  with  lightning  on  the  hands 

profane 
Lifted  to  bless  the  slave-whip  and  the 

chain. 

Once  more  th'  old  Hebrew  tongue 
Bends  with  the  shafts  of  God  a  bow 

new-strung ! 

Take  up  the  mantle  which  the  proph 
ets   wore ; 

Warn  with  their  warnings, — show  the 
Christ  once  more 

Bound,  scourged,  and  crucified  in  his 

blameless  poor; 
And  shake  above  our  land 


314 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


The    imquenched    bolts    that    blazed 
in  Hosea's  hand! 

Not'vainly  shalt  thou  cast  upon  our 
years 

The    solemn   burdens    of   the   Orient 
seers, 

And  smite  with  truth  a  guilty  nation's 

ears. 
Mightier  was  Luther's  word 

Than  Seckingen's  mailed  arm  or  Hut- 
ton's  sword! 


THE  SISTERS. 

A  PICTURE  BY   BARRY. 

THE  shade  for  me,  but  over  thee 
The  lingering  sunshine  still; 

As,  smiling,  to  the  silent  stream 
Comes  down  the  singing  rill, 

So  come  to  me,  my  little  one, — 
My  years  with  thee  I  share, 

And  mingle  with  a  sister's  love 
A  mother's  tender  care. 

But  keep  the  smile  upon  thy  lip, 
The  trust  upon   thy  brow; 

Since    for   the    dear    one    God    hath 

called 
We  have  an  angel  now. 

Our  mother  from  the  fields  of  heaven 
Shall  still   her  ear  incline; 

Nor  ne^d  we  fear  her  humari  love 
Is  less  for  love  divine. 

The    songs   are   sweet   they   sing   be 
neath 

The  trees  of  life  so  fair, 
But  sweetest  of  the  songs  of  heaven 

Shall    be    her    children's    prayer. 

Then,  darling,  rest  upon  my  breast, 
And  teach  my  heart  to  lean 

With  thy  sweet  trust  upon  the  arm 
Which  folds  us  both  unseen! 


LINES, 

FOR  THE  AGRICULTURAL  AND  HORTICUL 
TURAL  EXHIBITION  AT  AMESBURY 
AND  SALISBURY,  SEPT.  28,  1858. 

THIS  day,  two  hundred  years  ago, 
The  wild  grape  by  the  river's  side, 

And  tasteless  groundnut  trailing  low, 
The  table  of  the  woods  supplied. 

Unknown  the  apple's  red  and  gold, 
The   blushing   tint    of    peach    and 
pear; 

The  mirror  of  the  Powow  told 
No  tale  of  orchards  ripe  and  rare. 

Wild  as  the  fruits  he  scorned  to  till, 
These  vales  the  idle  Indian  trod; 

Nor  knew  the  glad,  creative  skill, — 
The  joy  of  him  who  toils  with  God. 

O  Painter  of  the  fruits  and  flowers! 

We  thank  thee  for  thy  wise  design 
Whereby  these  human  hands  of  ours 

In  Nature's  garden  work  with 
thine. 

And  thanks  that  from  our  daily  need 
The  joy  of  simple  faith  is  born; 

That  he  who  smites  the  summer  weed, 
May  trust  thee  for  the  autumn  corn. 

Give  fools  their  gold,  and  knaves 
their  power; 

Let  fortune's  bubbles  rise  and  fall ; 
Who  sows  a  fiekl,  or  trains  a  flower, 

Or  plants  a  tree,  is  more  than  all. 

For  he  who  blesses  most  is  blest; 

And   God  and  man  shall   own  his 

worth 
Who  toils  to  leave  as  his  bequest 

An  added  beauty  to  the  earth. 

And,  soon  or  late,  to  all  that  sow, 
The  time  of  harvest  shall  be  given ; 

The  flower  shall  bloom,  the  fruit  shall 

grow, 
If  not  on  earth,  at  last  in  heaven! 


THE  PREACHER. 


315 


THE   PREACHER. 

ITS  windows  flashing  to  the  sky, 

Beneath  a  thousand  roofs  of  brown, 
Far  down  the  vale,  my  friend  and  I 

Beheld  the  old  and  quiet  town; 
The  ghostly  sails  that  out  at  sea 
Flapped  their  white  wings  of  mystery ; 
The  beaches  glimmering  in  the  sun, 
And  the  low  wooded  capes  that  run 
Into  the  sea-mist  north  and  south ; 
The  sand-bluffs  at  the  river's  mouth ; 
The  swinging  chain-bridge,  and,  afar, 
The  foam-line  of  the  harbor-bar. 

Over  the  woods  and  meadow-lands 
A    crimson-tinted    shadow    lay 
Of  clouds  through  which  the  set 
ting  day 

Flung  a  slant  glory  far  away. 
It  glittered  on  the  wet  sea-sands, 

It  flamed  upon  the  city's  panes, 
Smote  the  white  sails  of  ships  that 

wore 
Outward  or  in,  and  glided  o'er 

The    steeples    with    their    veering 
vanes ! 

Awhile  my  friend  with  rapid  search 
O'erran    the    landscape.      "  Yonder 

spire 

Over  gray  roofs,  a  shaft  of  fire; 
What   is   it,    pray  ?  "— "  The    White- 
field  Church! 

Walled  about  by  its  basement  stones, 
There  rest  the  marvellous  prophet's 

bones." 
Then    as    our    homeward    way    we 

walked, 

Of  the  great  preacher's  life  we  talked ; 
And  through  the  mystery  of  our  theme 
The  outward  glory  seemed  to  stream, 
And    Nature's   self   interpreted 
The  doubtful  record  of  the  dead; 
And  every  level  beam  that  smote 
The  sails  upon  the  dark  afloat 
A  symbol  of  the  light  became 
Which  touched  the  shadows  of  our 

blame 
With  tongues  of  Pentecostal  flame. 


Over  the  roofs  of  the  pioneers 
Gathers  the  moss  of  a  hundred  years : 
On  man  and  his  works  has  passed  tht 

change 
Which  needs  must  be  in  a  century's 

range. 
The  land  lies  open  and  warm  in  thf» 

sun, 

Anvils  clamor  and  mill-wheels  run, — 
Flocks  on  the  hillsides,  herds  on  the 

plain, 
The  wilderness  gladdened  with  frurt 

and  grain! 
But   the   living   faith   of   the   settlers 

old 
A    dead     profession   their     children 

hold; 
To  the  lust  of  office   and  greed  of 

trade 

A  stepping-stone  is  the  altar  made. 
The  Church,  to  place  and  power  the 

door, 

Rebukes  the  sin  of  the  world  no  more, 
Nor    sees   its    Lord   in  the   homeless 

poor. 

Everywhere  is  the  grasping  hand, 
And  eager  adding  of  land  to  land; 
And  earth,  which  seemed  to  the  fath 
ers  meant 

But   as    a   pilgrim's    wayside   tent, — 
A   nightly   shelter  to   fold  away 
When   the   Lord    should   call   at   the 

break   of   day, — 
Solid  and  steadfast  seems  to  be, 
And  Time  has  forgotten  Eternity! 


But  fresh  and  green  from  the  rotting 

roots 
Of  primal  forests  the  young  growth 

shoots ; 
From  the  death  of  the  old  the  nev; 

proceeds, 
And  the  life  of  truth  from  the  rot  of 

creeds : 
On  the  ladder  of  God,  which  upwanj 

leads, 
The    steps    of    progress    are    humaf.: 

needs. 
For  his  judgments  still  are  a  mighty 

deep, 


316 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


And  the  eyes  of  his  providence  never 

sleep : 
When  the  night  is  darkest  he  gives 

the  morn; 
When  the  famine  is  sorest,  the  wine 

and  corn! 

In  the  church  of  the  wilderness  Ed 
wards  wrought, 

Shaping  his  creed  at  the  forge  of 
thought ; 

And  with  Thor's  own  hammer  welded 
and  bent 

The  iron  links  of  his  argument, 

Which  strove  to  grasp  in  its  mighty 
span 

The  purpose  of  God  and  the  fate 
of  man! 

Yet  faithful  still,  in  his  daily  round 

To  the  weak,  and  the  poor,  and  sin- 
sick  found, 

The  schoolman's  lore  and  the  casuist's 
art 

Drew  warmth  and  life  from  his  fer 
vent  heart. 

Had  he  not  seen  in  the  solitudes 

Of  his  deep  and  dark  Northampton 
woods 

A  vision  of  love  about  him  fall? 

Not  the  blinding  splendor  which  fell 
on  Saul, 

Er.t  the  tenderer  glory  that  rests  on 
them 

Who  walk  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 

Where  never  the  sun  nor  moon  are 
known, 

But  the  Lord  and  his  love  are  the 
light  alone! 

And  watching  the  sweet,  still  counte 
nance 

Of  the  wife  of  his  bosom  rapt  in 
trance, 

Had  he  not  treasured  each  broken 
word 

Of  the  mystical  wonder  seen  and 
heard ; 

And  loved  the  beautiful  dreamer  more 

That  thus  to  the  desert  of  earth  she 
bore 

Clusters  of  Eschol  from  Canaan's 
shore  ? 


As  the  barley-winnower,  holding  with 

pain 

Aloft  in  waiting  his  chaff  and  grain, 
Joyfully  welcomes  the  far-off  breeze 
Sounding  the  pine-tree's  slender  keys, 
So  he  who  had  waited  long  to  hear 
The  sound  of  the  Spirit  drawing  near, 
Like    that    which    the    son    of    Iddo 

heard 
When  the  feet  of  angels  the  myrtles 

stirred, 

Felt  the  answer  of  prayer,  at  last, 
As  over  his  church  the  afflatus  passed, 
Breaking  its  sleep  as  breezes  break 
To  sun-bright  ripples  a  stagnant  lake. 

At  first  a  tremor  of  silent  fear, 
The  creep  of  the  flesh  at  danger  near, 
A  vague  foreboding  and  discontent, 
Over  the  hearts  of  the  people  went. 
All    nature    warned    in    sounds    and 

signs : 
The  wind  in  the  tops  of  the  forest 

pines 
In  the  name  of  the  Highest  called  to 

prayer, 

As  the  muezzin  calls  from  the  min 
aret  stair. 
Through    ceiled   chambers    of   secret 

sin 
Sudden  and  strong  the  light   shone 

in; 

A  guilty  sense  of  his  neighbor's  needs 
Startled  the  man  of  title-deeds; 
The  trembling  hand  of  the  worldling 

shook 
The   dust  of   years   from   the   Holy 

Book; 
And  the  psalms  of  David,  forgotten 

long, 
Took  the  place  of  the  scoffer's  song. 

The  impulse  spread  like  the  outward 

course 

Of  waters  moved  by  a  central  force: 
The  tide  of  spiritual  life  rolled  down 
From  inland  mountains  to  seaboard 

town. 

Prepared  and  ready  the  altar  stands 
Waiting    the    prophet's    outstretched 
hands 


THE  PREACHER. 


817 


And  prayer  availing,  to  downward  call 
The  fiery  answer  in  view  of  all. 
Hearts  are  like  wax  in  the  furnace, 

who 
Shall    mould,    and    shape,    and    cast 

them  anew? 
Lo!   by   the   Merrimack  WHITEFIELD 

stands 
In  the  temple  that  never  was  made  by 

hands, — 

Curtains  of  azure,  and  crystal  wall, 
And  dome  of  the  sunshine  over  all! — 
A   homeless    pilgrim,    with    dubious 

name 

Blown  about  on  the  winds  of  fame ; 
Now  as  an  angel  of  blessing  classed, 
And  now  as  a  mad  enthusiast. 
Called    in    his    youth    to    sound    and 

guage 

The  moral  lapse  of  his  race  and  age, 
And,    sharp    as    truth,    the    contrast 

draw 

Of  human  frailty  and  perfect  law; 
Possessed  by  the  one  dread  thought 

that  lent 

Its  goad  to  his  fiery  temperament, 
Up  and  down  the  world  he  went, 
A  John  the  Baptist  crying, — Repent! 

No    perfect    whole    can    our   nature 

make ; 

Here  or  there  the  circle  will  break; 
The  orb  of  life  as  it  takes  the  light 
On  one  side  leaves  the  other  in  night. 
Never  was  saint  so  good  and  great 
As  to  give  no  chance  at  St.  Peter's 

gate 

For  the  plea  of  the  Devil's  advocate. 
So,  incomplete  by  his  being's  law, 
The    marvellous    preacher    had     his 

flaw: 
With    step    unequal,    and   lame   with 

faults, 
His   shade   on  the   path   of   History 

halts. 

Wisely    and   well    said   the   Eastern 

bard; 

Fear  is  easy,  but  love  is  hard, — 
Easy  to  glow  with  the  Santon's  rage, 
And  walk  on  the  Meccan  pilgrimage ; 


But  he  is  greatest  and  best  who  can 
Worship  Allah  by  loving  man. 

Thus  he,— to   whom,    in  the  painful 

stress 

Of  zeal  on  fire  from  its  own  excess, 
Heaven  seemed  so  vast  and  earth  so 

small 
That  man  was  nothing,  since  God  was 

all,— 
Forgot,   as    the   best   at   times    have 

done, 
That  the  love  of  the  Lord  and  of  man 

are  one. 

Little  to  him  whose  feet  unshod 
The  thorny  path  of  the  desert  trod, 
Careless  of  pain,  so  it  led  to  God, 
Seemed  the  hunger-pang  and  the  poor 

man's  wrong, 
The  weak  ones  trodden  beneath  the 

strong. 
Should   the  worm  be  chooser? — the 

clay  withstand 
The     shaping     will     of  the  potter's 

hand? 

In  the  Indian  fable  Arjoon  hears 
The  scorn  of  a  god  rebuke  his  fears : 
"  Spare  thy  pity!  "  Krishna  saith; 
"  Not  in  thy  sword  is  the  power  of 

death! 

All  is  illusion, — loss  but  seems ; 
Pleasure  and  pain  are  only  dreams ; 
Who  deems  he  slayeth  doth  not  kill; 
Who  counts  as  slain  is  living  still. 
Strike,  nor  fear  thy  blow  is  crime; 
Nothing  dies  but  the  cheats  of  time; 
Slain  or  slayer,  small  the  odds 
To  each,  immortal  as  Indra's  gods !  " 

So  by  Savannah's  banks  of  shade, 

The  stones  of  his  mission  the  preach 
er  laid 

On  the  heart  of  the  negro  crushed 
and  rent, 

And  made  of  his  blood  the  wall's 
cement ; 

Bade  the  slave-ship  speed  from  coast 
to  coast 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


Fanned  by  the  wings  of  the  Holy 
Ghost ; 

And  begged  for  the  love  of  Christ, 
the  gold 

Coined  from  the  hearts  in  its  groan 
ing  hold. 

What  could  it  matter,  more  or  less 

Of  stripes,  and  hunger,  and  weari 
ness? 

Living  or  dying,  bond  or  free, 

What  was  time  to  eternity? 

Alas    for    the    preacher's    cherished 

schemes ! 
Mission  and  church   are     now     but 

dreams ; 
Nor  prayer   nor   fasting   availed   the 

plan 
To  honor  God  through  the  wrong  of 

man. 

Of  all  his  labors  no  trace  remains 
Save  the  bondman  lifting  his  hands 

in  chains. 
The  woof  he  wove  in  the  righteous 

warp 

Of    freedom-loving   Oglethorpe, 
Clothes  with  curses  the  goodly  land, 
Changes  its  greenness  and  bloom  to 

sand; 
And   a   century's   lapse  reveals   once 

more 
The  slave-ship  stealing  to  Georgia's 

shore. 

Father  of  Light!  how  blind  is  he 
Who  sprinkles  the  altar  he  rears  to 

Thee 

With  the  blood  and  tears  of  human 
ity? 

He  erred :  Shall  we  count  his  gifts  as 
naught  ? 

Was  the  work  of  God  in  him  un- 
wrought  ? 

The  servant  may  through  his  deaf 
ness  err, 

And  blind  may  be  God's  messenger ; 

But  the  errand  is  sure  they  go  upon,— 

The  word  is  spoken,  the  deed  is  done. 

Was  the  Hebrew  temple  less  fair  and 
good 

That  Solomon  bowed  to  gods  of 
wood? 


For  his  tempted  heart  and  wander 
ing  feet, 
Were  the  songs  of  David  less  pure 

and  sweet? 
So  in  light  and  shadow  the  preacher 

went, 

God's  erring  and  human  instrument ; 
And  the  hearts  of  the  people  where 

he  passed 

Swayed  as  the  reeds  sway  in  the  blast, 
Under  the  spell  of  a  voice  which  took 
In  its  compass  the  flow  of  Siloa's 

brook, 
And  the  mystical  chime  of  the  bells 

of   gold 
On  the  ephod's  hem  of  the  priest  of 

old,— 
Now  the  roll  of  thunder,  and  now  the 

awe 
Of  the  trumpet  heard  in  the  Mount 

of  Law. 


A  solemn  fear  on  the  listening  crowd 
Fell  like  the  shadow  of  a  cloud. 
The  sailor  reeling  from  out  the  ships 
Whose  masts  stood  thick  in  the  river- 
slips 
Felt  the  jest  and  the  curse  die  on  his 

lips. 

Listened  the  fisherman  rude  and  hard, 
The  calker  rough  from  the  builder's 

yard, 

The  man  of  the  market  left  his  load, 
The  teamster  leaned  on  his  bending 

goad, 

The  maiden,  and  youth  beside  her,  felt 
Their  hearts  in  a  closer  union  melt, 
And  saw  the  flowers  of  their  love  in 

bloom 
Down    the   endless   vistas   of   life   to 

come. 

Old  age  sat  feebly  brushing  away 
From  his  ears  the  scanty  locks  of  gray ; 
And  careless  boyhood,  living  the  free 
Unconscious  life  of  bird  and  tree, 
Suddenly  wakened  to  a  sense 
Of  sin  and  its  guilty  consequence. 
It   was  as   if  an   angel's  voice 
Called  the  listeners  up  for  their  fina) 

choice ; 
As  if  a  strong  hand   rent  apart 


THE  PREACHER. 


319 


The  veils  of  sense  from  soul  and 
heart, 

Showing  in  light  ineffable 

The  joys  of  heaven  and  woes  of  hell! 

All  about  in  the  misty  air 

The  hills  seemed  kneeling  in  silent 
prayer; 

The  rustle  of  leaves,  the  moaning 
sedge 

The  water's  lap  on  its  gravelled  edge, 

The  wailing  pines,  and,  far  and  faint, 

The  wood-dove's  note  of  sad  com 
plaint, — 

To  the  solemn  voice  of  the  preacher 
lent 

An  undertone  as  of  low  lament ; 

And  the  rote  of  the  sea  from  its  san 
dy  coast, 

On  the  easterly  wind,  now  heard,  now 
lost, 

Seemed  the  murmurous  sound  of  the 
judgment  host. 

Yet  wise  men  doubted,  and  good  men 

wept, 
As  that  storm  of  passion  above  them 

swept, 
And,  comet-like,     adding     flame     to 

flame, 
The  priests   of     the     new     Evangel 

came, — 

Davenport,  flashing  upon  the  crowd, 
Charged  like  summer's  electric  cloud, 
Now    holding    the    listener    still    as 

death 

With  terrible  warnings  under  breath, 
Now  shouting  for  joy,  as  if  he  viewed 
The  vision  of  Heaven's  beatitude! 
And    Celtic    Tennant,    his    long    coat 

bound 
Like   a  monk's   with   leathern   girdle 

round, 

Wild  with  the  toss  of  unshorn  hair, 
And   wringing   of   hands,   and     eyes 

aglare, 

Groaning  under  the  world's  despair! 
Grave   pastors,   grieving   their    flocks 

to  lose, 

Prophesied  to  the  empty  pews 
That  gourds  would  wither,  and  mush 
rooms  die, 


And    noisiest    fountains    run    soonest 

dry, 
Like  the  spring  that  gushed  in  New- 

bury    Street, 
Under  the  tramp  of  the  earthquake's 

feet, 

A  silver  shaft  in  the  air  and  light, 
For  a  single  day,  then  lost  in  night, 
Leaving  only,   its   place  to  tell, 
Sandy  fissure  and  sulphurous   smell. 
With    zeal    wing-clipped    and    white- 
heat  cool, 

Moved  by  the  spirit  in  grooves  of  rule, 
No  longer  harried,  and  cropped,  and 

fleeced, 

Flogged  bysheriff  and  cursed  by  priest, 
But  by  wiser  counsels  left  at  ease 
To  settle  quietly  on  his  lees, 
And,  self-concentred,  to  count  as  done 
The  work  which  his    fathers    scarce 

begun, 

In  silent  protest  of  letting  alone, 
The    Quaker    kept    the    way    of    his 

own, — 

A  non-conductor  among  the  wires, 
With  coat  of  asbestos  proof  to  fires. 
And  quite  unable  to  mend  his  pace 
To  catch  the  falling  manna  of  grace, 
He  hugged  the  closer  his  little  store 
Of  faith, and  silently  prayed  for  more. 
And  vague  of  creed  and  barren  of  rite. 
But  holding,  as  in  his  Master's  sight, 
Act  and  thought  to  the  inner  light, 
The     round     of     his     simple     duties 

walked, 
And  strove  to  live  what  the  others 

talked. 

And  who  shall  marvel  if  evil  went 
Step  by  step  with  the  good  intent, 
And  with  love  and  meekness,  side  by 

side, 

Lust  of  the  flesh  and  spiritual  pride? — 
That  passionate  longings  and  fancies 

vain 
Set  the  heart  on  fire  and  crazed  the 

brain  ? — 

That  over  the  holy  oracles 
Folly  sported  with  cap  and  bells? — 
That  goodly  women  and  learned  men 
Marvelling  told  with  tongue  and  pen 


320 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


How  unweaned  children  chirped  like 

birds 

Texts  of  Scripture  and  solemn  words, 
Like   the   infant   seers   of   the   rocky 

glens 
In   the   Puy   de   Dome   of   wild   Ce- 

vennes : 

Or  baby  Lamas  who  pray  and  preach 
From    Tartar    cradles    in    Buddha's 

speech? 

In  the  war  which  Truth  or  Freedom 

wages 
With  impious  fraud  and  the  wrong  of 

ages 

Hate  and  milice  and  self-love  mar 
The  notes  of  triumph  with  painful  jar, 
And  the  helping  angels  turn  aside 
Their  sorrowing  faces  the  shame  to 

hide. 

Never  on  custom's  oiled  grooves 
The  world  to  a  higher  level  moves, 
But  grates   and  grinds   with   friction 

hard 

On  granite  boulder  and  flinty  shard. 
The  heart  must  bleed  before  it  feels, 
The  pool  be  troubled  before  it  heals ; 
Ever  by  losses  the  right  must  gain, 
Every  good  have  its  birth  of  pain ; 
The  active  Virtues  blush  to  find 
The  Vices  wearing  their  badge  behind, 
And  Graces  and  Charities  feel  the  fire 
Wherein  the  sins  of  the  age  expire; 
The  fiend  still  rends  as  of  old  he  rent 
Trie   tortured    body    from    which    he 

went. 

But  Time  tests  all.     In  the  over-drift 
And  flow  of  the  Nile,  with  its  annual 

gift, 

Who  cares  for  the  Hadji's  relics  sunk? 
Who  thinks  of  the  drowned-out  Cop 
tic  monk? 
The    tide    that    loosens    the    temple's 

stones, 

And  scatters  the  sacred  ibis-bones, 
Drives  away  from  the  valley-land 
That    Arab    robber,    the    wandering 

sand, 

Moistens  the  fields  that  know  no  rain, 
Fringes  the  desert  with  belts  of  grain. 


And  bread  to  the  sower  brings  again. 
So  the  flood  of  emotion  deep  and 

strong 

Troubled  the  land  as  it  swept  along, 
But  left  a  result  of  holier  lives, 
Tenderer  mothers  and  worthier  wives. 
The  husband  and  father  whose  chil 
dren  fled 
And  sad  wife  wept  when  his  drunken 

tread 
Frightened  peace  from  his  roof-tree's 

shade, 
And  a  rock  of  offence  his  hearthstone 

made, 
In  a  strength  that  was  not  his  own, 

began 
To  rise  from  the  brute's  to  the  plane 

of  man. 

Old  friends  embraced,  long  held  apart 
By  evil  counsel  and  pride  of  heart ; 
And    penitence    saw     through     misty 

tears, 
In  the  bow  of  hope  on  its  cloud  of 

fears, 
The    promise    of    Heaven's     eternal 

years, — 
The   peace   of   God   for   the   world's 

annoy, — 
Beauty  for  ashes,  and  oil  of  joy! 

Under  the  church  of  Federal  Street, 
Under  the  tread  of  its  Sabbath  feet, 
Walled  about  by  its  basement  stones, 
Lie  the  marvellous  preacher's  bones. 
No  saintly  honors  to  them  are  shown, 
No  sign  nor  miracle  have  they 

known ; 

But  he  who  passes  the  ancient  church 
Stops  in  the  shade  of  its  belfry-porch, 
And  ponders  the  wonderful  life  of 

him 

Who  lies  at  rest  in  that  charnel  dim. 
Long  shall  the  traveller  strain  his  eye 
From  the  railroad  cai,  as  it  plunges 

t>y, 

And  the  vanishing  town  behind  him 
search 

For  the  slender  spire  of  the  White- 
field  Church; 

And  feel  for  one  moment  the  ghosts 
of  trade, 


THE  QUAKER  ALUMNI. 


321 


And  fashion,  and  folly,  and  pleasure 

laid, 
By  the  thought  of  that  life  of  pure 

intent, 

That  voice  of  warning  yet  eloquent, 
Of    one    on    the    errands    of    angels 

sent. 
And  if  where  he  labored  the  flood 

of  sin 
Like  a.  tide  from  the  harbor-bar  sets 

in, 

And  over  a  life  of  time  and  sense 
The  church-spires  lift  their  vain  de 
fence, 

As  if  to  scatter  the  bolts  of  God 
With  the  points  of  Calvin's  thunder- 
rod,— 

Still,  as  the  gem  of  its  civic  crown, 
Precious  beyond  the  world's  renown, 
His    memory    hallows    the      ancient 
town! 


THE  QUAKER  ALUMNI. 

FROM  the  well-springs  of  Hudson, 
the   sea-cliffs   of   Maine, 

Grave  men,  sober  matrons,  you  gath 
er  again; 

And,  with  hearts  warmer  grown  as 
your  heads  grow  more  cool, 

Play  over  the  old  game  of  going  to 
school. 

All  your  strifes  and  vexations,  your 
whims  and  complaints, 

(You  were  not  saints  yourselves,  if 
the  children  of  saints!) 

All  your  petty  self-seekings  and  ri 
valries  done, 

Round  the  dear  Alma  Mater  your 
hearts  beat  as  one! 

How  widely  soe'er  you  have  strayed 

from  the  fold, 
Though     your    "  thee "     has     grown 

"you,"  and  your  drab  blue   and 

gold, 
To  the  old  friendly  speech  and  the 

garb's  sober  form, 


Like  the  heart  of  Argyle  to  the  tar 
tan,  you  warm. 

But,   the   first    greetings    over,    you 

glance  round  the  hall; 
Your   hearts   call   the   roll,   but   they 

answer  not  all: 
Through  the  turf  green  above  them 

the  dead  cannot  hear; 
Name  by  name,  in  the  silence,  falls 

sad  as  a  tear! 

In  love,  let  us  trust,  they  were  sum 
moned  so  soon 

From  the  morning  of  life,  while  we 
toil  through  its  noon; 

They  were  frail  like  ourselves,  they 
had  needs  like  our  own, 

And  they  rest  as  we  rest  in  God's 
mercy  alone. 

Unchanged  by  our  changes  of  spirit 

and  frame, 
Past,    now,    and    henceforward    the 

Lord  is  the  same ; 
Though  we  sink  in  the  darkness,  his 

arms  break  our  fall, 
And  in  death  as  in  life,  he  is  Father 

of  all! 

We  are  older :  our  footsteps,  so  light 

in  the  play 
Of   the   far-away   school-time,   move 

slower  to-day; — 
Here  a  beard  touched     with     frost, 

there  a  bald,  shining  crown, 
And  beneath  the  cap's   border  gray 

mingles  with  brown. 

But    fnith    should    be    cheerful,    and 

trust  should  be  glad. 
And   our    follies    and   sins,   not   our 

years,  make  us  sad. 
Should  the  heart  closer  shut  as  the 

bonnet  grows  prim, 
And  the  face  grow  in  length  as  the 

hat  grows  in  brim? 

Life  is  brief,  duty  grave;  but,  with 
rainfolded  wings, 


322 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


Of  yesterday's  sunshine  the  grateful 

heart  sings; 
And  we,  of  all  others,  have  reason  to 

pay 
The  tribute  of  thanks,  and  rejoice  on 

our  way; 

For  the  counsels  that  turned  from 
the  follies  of  youth; 

For  the  beauty  of  patience,  the  white 
ness  of  truth; 

For  the  wounds  of  rebuke,  when  love 
tempered  its  edge; 

For  the  household's  restraint,  and  the 
discipline's  hedge; 

For  the  lessons  of  kindness  vouch 
safed  to  the  least 

Of  the  creatures  of  God,  whether  hu 
man  or  beast, 

Bringing  hope  to  the  poor,  lending 
strength  to  the  frail, 

In  the  lanes  of  the  city,  the  slave-hut, 
and  jail; 

For  a  womanhood  higher  and  holier. 

by  all 
Her  knowledge   of  good,   than    was 

Eve  ere  her  fall, — 
Whose     task-work     of    duty    moves 

lightly  as  play, 
Serene  as  the  moonlight  and  warm  as 

the  day; 

And,   yet  more,   for  the  faith  which 

embraces  the  whole, 
Of  the  creeds  of  the  ages  the  life  and 

the  soul, 
Wherein   letter  and   spirit   the   same 

channel  run, 
And  man  has  not  severed  what  God 

has  made  one ! 

For  a  sense  of  the  Goodness  revealed 

everywhere, 
As  sunshine  impartial,  and  free  as  the 

air; 
For  a  trust  in  humanity,  Heathen  or 

Jew, 


And  a  hope  for  all  darkness  The 
Light  shineth  through. 

Who   scoffs   at   our  birthright? — the 

words  of  the  seers, 
And  the  songs  of  the  bards  in  the 

twilight  of  years, 
All  the  foregleams  of  wisdom  in  san- 

ton  and  sage, 
In  prophet  and  priest,   are  our  true 

heritage. 

The  Word  which  the  reason  of  Plato 

discerned; 
The  truth,   as     whose     symbol     the 

Mithra-fire  burned; 
The  soul  of  the  world  which  the  Stoic 

but  guessed, 
In  the  Light   Universal  the   Quaker 

confessed! 

No  honors  of  war  to  our  worthies  be 
long; 

Their  plain  stem  of  life  never  flow 
ered  into  song; 

But  the  fountains  they  opened  still 
gush  by  the  way, 

And  the  world  for  their  healing  is 
better  to-day. 

He  who  lies  where  the  minster's 
groined  arches  curve  down 

To  the  tomb-crowded  transept  of 
England's  renown, 

The  glorious  essayist,  by  genius  en 
throned, 

Whose  pen  as  a  sceptre  the  Muses  all 
owned, — • 

Who   through   the   world's  pantheon 

walked  in  his  pride, 
Setting  new  statues  up,  thrusting  old 

ones  aside, 
And  in  fiction  the  pencils  of  history 

dipped, 
To  gild  o'er  or  blacken  each  saint  in 

his   crypt, — • 

How  vainly  he  labored  to  sully  with 
blame 


THE  QUAKER  ALUMNI. 


323 


The  white  bust  of  Penn,  in  the  niche 

of  his  fame! 
Self-will  is  self-wounding,  perversity 

blind : 
On    himself   fell   the   stain   for     the 

Quaker   designed! 

For  the  sake  of  his  true-hearted  fath 
er  before  him; 

For  the  sake  of  the  dear  Quaker 
mother  that  bore  him; 

For  the  sake  of  his  gifts,  and  the 
works  that  outlive  him, 

And  his  brave  words  for  freedom,  we 
freely  for^ve  him! 

There  are  those  who  take  note  that 

our  numbers  are  small, — 
New  Gibbons  who  write  our  decline 

and  our  fall; 
But  the  Lord  of  the  seed-field  takes 

care  of  his  own, 
And  the  world  shall  yet  reap  what 

our  sowers  have  sown. 

The  last  of  the  sect  to  his  fathers  may 

go, 
Leaving  only  his  coat  for  some  Bar- 

num  to  show; 
But  the  truth  will  outlive  him,  and 

broaden   with    years, 
Till    the    false    dies    away,    and    the 

wrong  disappears. 

Nothing  fails  of  its  end.    Out  of  sight 

sinks   the   stone, 
In  the  deep  sea  of  time,  but  the  circles 

sweep  on, 
Till  the  low-rippled  murmurs  along 

the  shores  run, 
And  the  dark  and  dead  waters  leap 

glad  in  the  sun. 

Meanwhile  shall  we  learn,  in  our  ease, 
to  forget 

To  the  imrtyrs  of  Truth  and  of  Free 
dom  our  debt? — 

Hide  their  words  out  of  sight,  like 
the  garb  that  they  wore, 


And  for  Barclay's  Apology  offer  one 
more? 

Shall  we  fawn  round  the  priestcraft 

that  glutted  the  shears, 
And   festooned  the   stocks   with   our 

grandfathers'  ears? — 
Talk  of  Woolman's  unsoundness? — 

count  Penn  heterodox? 
And   take    Cotton    Mather    in   place 

of  George  Fox  ?— 

Make  our  preachers  war-chaplains?— 

quote   Scripture  to  take 
The  hunted  slave  back,  for  Onesimus' 

sake?— 
Go    to    burning   church-candles,    and 

chanting  in  choir, 
And  on  the  old  meeting-house  stick 

up  a  spire? 

No!  the  old  paths  we'll  keep  until 

better  are  shown, 
Credit  good  where  we  find  it,  abroad 

or  our  own ; 
And    while     "  Lo    here"    and    "  Lo 

there"  the  multitude  call, 
Be  true  to  ourselves,  and  do  justice 

to  all. 

The  good  round  about  us  we  need  not 

refuse, 
Nor  talk  of  our  Zion  as  if  we  were 

Jews; 
But  why  shirk  the  badge  which  our 

fathers  have  worn, 
Or  beg  the  world's  pardon  for  having 

been  born  ? 

We  need  not  pray  over  the  Pharisee's 
prayer, 

Nor  claim  that  our  wisdom  is  Ben 
jamin's  share. 

Truth  to  us  and  to  others  is  equal  and 
one: 

Shall  we  bottle  the  free  air,  or  hoard 
up  the  sun? 

Well  know  we  our  birthright  may 
serve  but  to  show 


324 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


How   the  meanest  of   weeds   in  the 

richest  soil  grow; 
But  we  need  not  disparage  the  good 

which  we  hold; 
Though  the  vessels  be   earthen,  the 

treasure  is  gold! 

Enough  and  too  much  of  the   sect 

and  the  name. 
What  matters  our  label,  so  truth  be 

our  aim? 
The  creed  may  be  wrong,  but  the  life 

may  be  true, 
And  hearts  beat  the  same  under  drab 

coats  or  blue. 

So  the  man  be  a  man,  let  him  wor 
ship,  at  will, 

In  Jerusalem's  courts,  or  on  Gerizim's 
hill. 

When  she  makes  up  her  jewels,  what 
cares  the  good  town 

For  the  Baptist  of  WAYLAND,  the 
Quaker  of  BROWN? 

And   this    green,    favored   island,    so 

fresh  and  sea-blown. 
When  she  counts  up  the  worthies  her 

annals  have  known, 
Never  waits  for  the  pitiful  gangers  of 

sect 
To  measure  her  love,  and  mete  out 

her  respect. 

Three   shades   at  this   moment   seem 

walking  her   strand, 
Each    with    head    halo-crowned,    and 

with  palms  in  his  hand, — 
Wise  Berkeley,  grave  Hopkins,  and, 

smiling    serene 
On  prelate  and  puritan,  Channing  is 

seen. 


One  holy  name  bearing,  no  longer 
they  need 

Credentials  of  party,  and  pass-words 
of  creed : 

The  new  song  they  sing  hath  a  three 
fold  accord. 


And  they  own  one  baptism,  one  faith, 
and  one  Lord! 

But  the  golden  sands  run  out:  occa 
sions  like  these 

Glide  swift  into  shadow,  like  sails 
on  the  seas: 

While  we  sport  with  the  mosses  and 
pebbles  ashore, 

They  lessen  and  fade,  and  we  see 
them  no  more. 

Forgive  me,  dear  friends,  if  my  va 
grant  thoughts  seem 

Like  a  school-boy's  who  idles  and 
plays  with  his  theme. 

Forgive  the  light  measure  whose 
changes  display 

The  sunshine  and  rain  of  our  brief 
April  day. 

There  are  moments  in  life  when  the 

lip  and  the  eye 
Try  the  question  of  whether  to  smile 

or  to  cry; 
And  scenes  and  reunions  that  prompt 

like  our  own 
The  tender  in  feeling,  the  playful  in 

tone. 

I,  who  never  sat  down  with  the  boys 

and  the  girls 
At    the    feet    of    your    Slocums,    and 

Cartlands,  and  Earles, — 
By  courtesy  only  permitted  to  lay 
On  your  festival's  altar  my  poor  gift, 

to-day, — 

I  would  joy  in  your  joy:  let  me  have 
a  friend's  part 

In  the  warmth  of  your  welcome  of 
hand  and  of  heart, — 

On  your  play-ground  of  boyhood  un 
bend  the  brow's  care, 

And  shift  the  old  burdens  our  shoul 
ders  must  bear. 

Long  live  the  good  School!  giving 
out  year  by  year 

Recruits  to  true  manhood  and  wom 
anhood  dear: 


BROWN  OF  OSSAWATOMIE. 


Brave  boys,  modest  maidens,  in  beauty 

sent  forth, 
The  living  epistles  and  proof  of  its 

worth ! 

In  and  out  let  the  young  life  as  stead 
ily  flow 

As  in  broad  Narragansett  the  tides 
come  and  go; 

And  its  sons  and  its  daughters  in 
prairie  and  town 

Remember  its  honor,  and  guard  its 
renown. 

Not  vainly  the  gift  of  its  founder  was 
made; 


Not  prayerless  the  stones  of  its  cor 
ner  were  laid : 

The  blessing  of  Him  whom  in  secret 
they  sought 

Has  owned  the  good  work  which  the 
fathers  have  wrought. 

To  Him  be  the  glory  forever! — We 

bear 
To  the  Lord    of    the    Harvest    our 

wheat  with  the  tare. 
\Vhat  we  lack  in  our  work  may  He 

find  in  our  will, 
And  winnow  in  mercy  our  good  from 

the  ill! 


BROWN  OF  OSSAWATOMIE. 

JOHN  BROWN  OF  OSSA\VATOMIE  spake  on  his  dying  day: 
"  I  will  not  have  to  shrive  my  soul  a  priest  in  Slavery's  pay. 
But  let  some  poor  slave-mother  whom  I  have  striven  to  free, 
With  her  children,  from  the  gallows-stair  put  up  a  prayer  for  me !  " 

John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie,  they  led  him  out  to  die ; 

And  lo  !  a  poor  slave-mother  with  her  little  child  pressed  nigh. 

Then  the  bold,  blue  eye  grew  tender,  and  the  old  harsh  face  grew  mild, 

As  he  stooped  between  the  jeering  ranks  and  kissed  the  negro's  child! 

The  shadows  of  his  stormy  life  that  moment  fell  apart ; 
And  they  who  blamed  the  bloody  hand  forgave  the  loving  heart. 
That  kiss  from  all  its  guilty  means  redeemed  the  good  intent, 
And  round  the  grisly  fighter's  hair  the  martyr's  aureole  bent! 

Perish  with  him  the  folly  that  seeks  through  evil  good ! 
Long  live  the  generous  purpose  unstained  with  human  blood ! 
Not  the  raid  of  midnight  terror,  but  the  thought  which  underlies ; 
Not  the  borderer's  pride  of  daring,  but  the  Christian's  sacrifice. 

Nevermore  may  yon  Blue  Ridges  the  Northern  rifle  hear, 

Nor  see  the  light  of  blazing  homes  flash  on  the  negro's  spear. 

But  let  the  free-winged  angel  Truth  their  guarded  passes  scale, 

To  teach  that  right  is  more  than  might,  and  justice  more  than  mail! 

So  vainly  shall  Virginia  set  her  battle  in  array; 
In  vain  her  trampling  squadrons  knead  the  winter  snow  with  clay. 
She  may  strike  the  pouncing  eagle,  but  she  dares  not  harm  the  dove ; 
And  every  gate  she  bars  to  Hate  shall  open  wide  to  Love ! 


326 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


FROM  PERUGIA. 


"The  thing  which  has  the  most  dissevered 
the  people  from  the  Pope, — the  unforgivable 
thing,— the  breaking  point  between  him  and 
them, — has  been  the  encouragement  and  pro 
motion  he  gave  to  the  officer  under  whom 
were  executed  the  slaughte.  s  of  Perugia.  That 
made  the  breaking  point  in  many  honest 
hearts  that  had  clung  to  him  before."— Harriet 
Beecher  Sto-we1  s  "Letters  from  Italy." 

THE  tall,  sallow  guardsmen  their 
horsetails  have  spread, 

Flaming  out  in  their  violet,  yellow, 
and  red; 

And  behind  go  the  lackeys  in  crim 
son  and  buff, 

And  the  chamberlains  gorgeous  in 
velvet  and  ruff; 

Next,  in  red-legged  pomp,  come  the 
cardinals  forth, 

Each  a  lord  of  the  church  and  a 
prince  of  the  earth. 


What's  this  squeak  of  the  fife,  and 

this  batter  of  drum? 
Lo!  the   Swiss  of  the  Church   from 

Perugia  come, — 
The  militant    angels,   whose     sabres 

drive  home 
To    the    hearts    of    the    malcontents, 

cursed  and  abhorred, 
The    good     Father's    missives,     and 

"Thus  saith  the  Lord!  " 
And  lend  to  his  logic  the  point  of  the 

sword! 

O  maids  of  Etruria,  gazing  forlorn 
O'er   dark  Thrasymenus,   dishevelled 

and  torn! 
O   fathers,   who   pluck  at  your  gray 

beards  for  shame! 
O   mothers,   struck  dumb  by  a  woe 

without  name! 
Well  ye  know  how  the  Holy  Church 

hireling  behaves, 
And  his  tender  compassion  of  prisons 

and  graves! 


There  they  stand,  the  hired  stabbers, 

the  blood-stains  yet  fresh, 
That  splashed  like  red  wine  from  the 

vintage  of  flesh, — 
Grim  instruments,  careless  as  pincers 

and  rack 
How  the  joints  tear  apart,  and  the 

strained  sinews  crack ; 
But  the  hate  that  glares  on  them  is 

sharp  as  their  swords, 
And  the  sneer  and  the   scowl  print 

the  air  with  fierce  words! 


Off  with  hats,  down  with  knees, 
shout  your  vivas  like  mad! 

Here  's  the  Pope  in  his  holiday  right 
eousness  clad, 

From  shorn  crown  to  toe-nail,  kiss- 
worn  to  the  quick, 

Of  sainthood  in  purple  the  pattern 
and  pick, 

Who  the  role  of  the  priest  and  the 
soldier  unites, 

And,  praying  like  Aaron,  like  Joshua 
fights! 


Is  this    Pio   Nono  the  gracious,   for 

whom 
We   sang  our  hosannas   and  lighted 

all  Rome; 
With  whose  advent  we  dreamed  the 

new  era  began 
When   the   priest   should   be    human, 

the  monk  be  a  man? 
Ah,   the   wolf's   with   the   sheep,   and 

the  fox  with  the  fowl, 
When  freedom  we  trust  to  the  crozier 

and  cowl! 


Stand  aside,  men  of  Rome!  Here's 
a  hangman-faced  Swiss — 

(A  blessing  for  him  surely  can't  go 
amiss)  — 

Would  kneel  down  the  sanctified  slip 
per  to  kiss. 

Short  shrift  will  suffice  him, — he 's 
blessed  beyond  doubt; 

But  there  's  blood  on  his  hands  which 
would  scarcely  wash  out, 


FOR  AN  AUTUMN  FESTIVAL. 


327 


Though  Peter  himself  held  the  bap 
tismal  spout! 

Make  way  for  the  next!  Here's  an 
other  sweet  son! 

What 's  this  mastiff-jawed  rascal  in 
epaulets  done? 

He  did,  whispers  rumor,  (its  truth 
God  forbid!) 

At  Perugia  what  Herod  at  Bethle 
hem  did. 

And  the  mothers  ? — Don't  name  them ! 
— these  humors  of  war 

They  who  keep  him  in  service  must 
pardon  him  for. 

Hist!  here's  the  arch-knave  in  a  car 
dinal's  hat, 

With  the  heart  of  a  wolf,  and  the 
stealth  of  a  cat 

(As  if  Judas  and  Herod  together 
were  rolled), 

Who  keeps,  all  as  one,  the  Pope's 
conscience  and  gold, 

Mounts  guard  on  the  altar,  and  pil 
fers  from  thence, 

And  flatters  St.  Peter  while  stealing 
his  pence! 

Who  doubts  Antonelli?  Have  mira 
cles  ceased 

When  robbers  say  mass,  and  Barab- 
bas  is  priest? 

When  the  Church  eats  and  drinks, 
at  its  mystical  board, 

The  true  flesh  and  blood  carved  and 
shed  by  its  sword, 

When  its  martyr,  unsinged,  claps  the 
crown  on  his  head, 

And  roasts,  as  his  proxy,  his  neigh 
bor  instead! 

There!  the  bells  jow  and  jangle  the 
same  blessed  way 

That  they  did  when  they  rang  for 
Bartholomew's  day. 

Hark!  the  tallow-faqed  monsters, 
nor  women  nor  boys, 

Vex  the  air  with  a  shrill,  sexless  hor 
ror  of  noise. 


Te     Deum     laudamiis! — All     round 

without  stint 
The  incense-pot  swings  with  a  taint 

of  blood  in  't! 

And  now  for  the  blessing!     Of  little 

account, 
You  know,  is  the  old  one  they  heard 

on  the  Mount. 
Its   giver   was    landless,   his    raiment 

was  poor, 
No     jewelled     tiara     his     fishermen 

wore ; 
No  incense,  no  lackeys,  no  riches,  no 

home, 
No  Swiss  Guards! — We  order  things 

better  at  Rome. 

So    bless    us    the    strong    hand,    and 

curse  us  the  weak; 
Let  Austria's  vulture  have  food  for 

her  beak; 
Let   the   wolf-whelp   of   Naples   play 

Bomba  again, 
With    his    death-cap    of    silence,    and 

halter,  and  chain ; 
Put    reason,    and    justice,    and   truth 

under  ban; 
For  the  sin  unforgiven  is  freedom  for 

man! 


FOR    AN  AUTUMN  •  FESTIVAL. 

THE  Persian's  flowery  gifts,  the 
shrine 

Of  fruitful  Ceres,  charm  no  more; 
The  woven  wreaths  of  oak  and  pine 

Are  dust  along  the  Isthmian  shore. 

But  beauty  hath  its  homage  still, 

And  nature  holds  us  still  in  debt; 
And  woman's  grace  and  household 

skill, 

And    manhood's    toil,  are    honored 
yet. 

And  we,  to-day,  amidst  our  flowers 
And  fruits,  have  come  to  own  again 

The  blessings  of  the  summer  hours, 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain; 


328 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


To  see  our  Father's  hand  once  more 
Reverse  for  us  the  plenteous  horn 

Of  autumn,  filled  and  running  o'er 
With  fruit,  and  flower,  and  golden 
corn! 

Once   more   the   liberal   year   laughs 

out 
O'er    richer    stores    than    gems    or 

gold; 
Once  more    with    harvest-song    and 

shout 
Is  Nature's  bloodless  triumph  told. 

Our  common  mother  rests  and  sings, 
Like    Ruth,   among    her    garnered 

sheaves; 

Her  lap  is  full  of  goodly  things, 
Her  brow  is  bright  with   autumn 
leaves. 

O  favors  every  year  made  new! 

O    gifts    with    rain    and  sunshine 

sent ! 
The  bounty  overruns  our  due, 

The  fulness  shames  our  discontent. 

We  shut  our  eyes,  the  flowers  bloom 

on; 
We  murmur,  but  the  corn-ears  fill; 


We  choose  the  shadow,  but  the  sun 
That    casts     it    shines     behind     us 
still. 

God  gives  us  with  our  rugged  soil 
The  power  to  make  it  Eden-fair, 

And  richer  fruits  to  crown  our  toil 
Than  summer-wedded  islands  bear. 

Who  murmurs  at  his  lot  to-day? 
Who    scorns    his    native   fruit   and 

bloom? 

Or  sighs  for  dainties  far  away, 
Beside     the     bounteous    board    of 
home? 

Thank  Heaven,  instead,  that  Free 
dom's  arm 

Can  change  a  rocky  soil  to  gold, — 
That  brave  and  generous  lives  can 

warm 
A  clime  with  northern  ices  cold. 

And  let  these  altars,  wreathed  with 
flowers 

And  piled  with  fruits,  awake  again 
Thanksgivings  for  the  golden  hours, 

The  early  and  the  latter  rain! 


THE  EXILE'S  DEPARTURE. 


329 


EARLY  AND  UNCOLLECTED  POEMS. 


THE  EXILE'S  DEPARTURE.1 

FOND    scenes,    which     delighted    my 

youthful  existence, 
With  feelings  of  sorrow   I  bid  ye 

adieu — 
A  lasting  adieu!  for  now,  dim  in  the 

distance, 
The    shores    of     Hibernia     recede 

from  my  view. 
Farewell  to  the  cliffs,  tempest-beaten 

and  gray, 
Which   guard   the   lov'd   shores   of 

my  own  native  land; 
Farewell    to    the    village     and     sail- 

shadow'd  bay, 

The    forest-crown'd    hill     and    the 
water-wash'd  strand. 

I  've    fought    for    my    country — I  've 

braved  all  the  dangers 
That  throng  round  the  path  of  the 

warrior  in  strife; 
I   now  must   depart  to   a  nation  of 

strangers, 
And  pass  in  seclusion  the  remnant 

of  life; 
Far,   far,   from  the    friends    to    my 

bosom  most  dear, 
With  none  to  support  me  in  peril 

and  pain, 
And  none  but  the  stranger  to  drop 

the  sad  tear, 

On  the   grave    where    the    heart 
broken   Exile  is   lain. 


Friends  of  my  youth!  I  must  leave 

you  forever, 

And  hasten  to   dwell   in  a  region 
unknown : — 


1  Whittier's  first  printed  poem,  published 
in  the  Newburyport  Free  Press,  June  8,  1826. 


Yet   time   cannot    change,    nor    the 

broad  ocean  sever, 
Hearts  firmly  united  and  tried  as 

our  own. 
Ah,  no!  though  I  wander,  all  sad  and 

forlorn, 
In  a  far  distant    land,    yet    shall 

memory  trace, 
When    far    o'er    the    ocean's    white 

surges  I  'm  borne, 
The   scene   of   past   pleasures, — my 
own  native  place. 

Farewell,  shores  of  Erin,  green  land 

of  my  fathers — 

Once  more,  and  forever,  a  mourn 
ful  adieu! 
For    round    thy    dim   headlands     the 

ocean-mist  gathers, 
And    shrouds    the    fair    isle   I   no 

longer  can  view. 
I  go — but  wherever    my  footsteps  I 

bend, 
For  freedom  and  peace  to  my  own 

native  isle, 
And    contentment    and   joy   to    each 

warm-hearted  friend, 
Shall  be  the  heart's  prayer  of  the 

lonely  Exile! 
HAVERHILL,  June  i,  1826. 


THE  DEITY.2 
i  KINGS  xix.  ii. 

THE  Prophet  stood 
On    the    dark    mount,    and    saw   the 

tempest  cloud 
Pour  the   fierce  whirlwind   from   its 

dark  reservoir 

2  Whittier's  second  printed  poem,  published 
in  the  Newburyport  Free  Press,  June  22,  1826. 


330 


EARLY  AND  UNCOLLECTED  POEMS. 


Of  congregated  gloom.  The  moun 
tain  oak, 

Torn  from  the  earth,  heav'd  high  its 
roots  where  once 

Its  branches  wav'd.  The  fir-tree's 
shapely  form, 

Smote  by  the  tempest,  lash'd  the 
mountain's  side. 

— Yet,  calm  in  conscious  purity,  the 
seer 

Beheld  the  scene  of  desolation — for 

Th'  Eternal  Spirit  mov'd  not  in  the 
storm! 

The  tempest  ceas'd! — the  cavern'd 
earthquake  burst 

Forth  from  its  prison,  and  the  moun 
tain  rock'd 

E'en  to  its  base:  the  topmost  crags 
were  thrown, 

With  fearful  crashing,  down  its  shud 
dering  sides. 

— Unaw'd,  the  prophet  saw  and  heard 
—he  felt 

Not  in  the  earthquake  mov'd  the  God 
of  Heaven! 

The  murmurs  died  away! — and  from 

the  height 
(Rent   by  the   storm,   and   shattered 

by  the  shock), 
Rose    far    and    clear    a    pyramid    of 

flame, 

Mighty  and  vast !— the  startled  moun 
tain  deer 
Shrunk  from   its  glare  and  cower'd 

within  the  shade. 
The  wild  fowl   shriek'd! — Yet,   even 

then,  the  seer 
Untrembling  stood,  and  mark'd    the 

fearful   glow — 
For  Israel's  God  came  not  within  the 

flame! 

The  fiery  beacon  sunk! — a  still  small 
voice 

Now  caught  the  prophet's  ear.  Its 
awful  tones, 

Unlike  to  human  sounds,  at  once  con 
veyed 


Deep  awe  and  reverence  to  his  pious 

heart. 
Then  bow'd  the  holy  man!  his  face 

he  veil'd 
Within  his  mantle,  and  in  meekness 

owned 
The  presence  of  his   God — discern'd 

not  in 
The    storm,    the    earthquake,    or    the 

mighty  flame, 

But  in  the  still  small  voice! 
HAVERHILL,  nth  of  6th  month,  1826. 


TO   THE  "RUSTIC  BARD." 


[T 

Whi 


The  following  poem,  which  was  written  by 
Whittier  in  January,  1828,  is  not  to  be  found 
in  any  of  his  published  works.  The  "Rustic 
Bard"  was  Robert  Dinsmoor  of  Windham,  N. 
H.,  of  whom  a  sketch  may  be  found  in  Whit- 
tier's  prose  works  ("Old  Portraits  and  Modern 
Sketches").  The  poem  is  in  imitation  of  the 
Scottish  dialect,  in  which  the  "Rustic  Bard" 
wrote.] 

HEALTH    to    the    hale    auld    "  Rustic 

Bard"! 

Gin  ye  a  poet  wad  regard 
Who  deems  it  honor  to  be  ca'd 

Yere   rhymm'  brither, 
'T  would    gie    his    muse    a    rich    re 
ward — 

He  asks  nae  ither. 

My  muse,  an  inexperienced  hizzie, 
Wi'  pride  an'   self-importance   dizzy, 
O'  skill  to  rhyme  it  free  an'  easy 

Is  na  possessor ; 

But    yours    has    been    a    lang    time 
busy — 

An  auld  transgressor. 

Yes,  lang  an'  weel  ye  've  held  your 

way, 

An',  spite  o'  a'  that  critics  say, 
The  memory  of  your  rustic  lay 

Shall  still  be  dear, 
An'  wi'  yere  name  to  latest  day 

Be  cherish'd  here. 

An'   though  the  cauld   an'  heartless 
sneer, 


THE  ALBUM. 


331 


An'  critics  urge  their  wordy  weir, 
An'   graceless    scoundrels    taunt    an' 
jeer, 

E'en  let  them  do  it; 
They  canna  mak'  the  muse  less  dear 

To  ony  poet. 

But    why   should  poets   "fash    their 

thumb  "  ? 

E'en  let  the  storms  o'  fortune  come; 
Maun  they  alane  be  left  in  gloom, 

To  grope  an'  stumble, 
An'  wear  the  garb  fate's  partial  loom 

Has  wove  maist  humble? 

No!     up    wi'    pride — wha     cares     a 

feather 
What   fools   may  chance  to   say,   or 

whether 
They    praise    or    spurn    our    rhymin' 

blether,— 

Laud  or  abuse  us, — 
While    conscience    keeps    within    fair 

weather, 
An'  wise  men  roose  us? 

Then  let  us  smile  when  fools  assail 

us, 

To  answer  them,  will  not  avail  us ; 
Contempt  alane  should  meet  the  rail- 
ers, — 

It  deals  a  blow, 

When  weapons  like  their  ain  wad  fail 
us, 

To  cower  the  foe. 

But  whyles  they  need  a  castigation, 
Shall  either  name  or  rank  or  station 
Protect  them  frae  the  flagellation 

Sae  muckle  needed? 
Shall  vice  an'  crimes  that  "  taint  the 
nation  " 

Pass  on  unheeded? 

No!  let  the  muse  her  trumpet  take, 
Till  auld  offenders  learn  to  shake 
An'  tremble  when  they  hear  her  wake 

Her  tones  o'  thunder; 
Till     pride     an'     bloated     ignorance 
quake, 

An'  gawkies  wonder. 


For  ye,  auld  bard,  though  long  years 

ye  Ve  been 

An  actor  in  life's  weary  scene, 
Wi'  saul  erect  an'  fearless  mien 

Ye  've  held  your  way ; 
An'  O!  may  Heaven  preserve  serene 
Your  closin'  day. 

Farewell!  the  poet's  hopes  an'  fears 
May  vanish  frae  this  vale  o'  tears, 
An'  curtain'd  wi'  forgotten  years 

His  muse  may  lie; 
But     virtue's     form     unscaith'd     ap 
pears — 

It  canna  die! 


THE  ALBUM. 

THE  dark-eyed  daughters  of  the  Sun, 
At  morn  and  evening  hours, 

O'erhung  their  graceful  shrines  alone 
With  wreaths  of  dewy  flowers. 

Not  vainly  did  those  fair  ones  cull 
Their  gifts  by  stream  and  wood; 

The  Good  is  always  beautiful, 
The  Beautiful  is  good! 

We  live  not  in  their  simple  day, 
Our  Northern  blood  is  cold, 

And  few  the  offerings  which  we  lay 
On  other  shrines  than  Gold. 

With  Scripture  texts  to  chill  and  ban 
The  heart's  fresh  morning  hours, 

The  heavy-footed  Puritan 

Goes  trampling  down  the  flowers ; 

Nor  thinks  of  Him  who  sat  of  old 

Where  Syrian  lilies  grew, 
And  from  their  mingling  shade  and 
gold 

A  holy  lesson  drew. 

Yet  lady,  shall  this  book  of  thine, 
Where  Love  his  gifts  has  brought, 

Become  to  thee  a  Persian  shrine, 
O'erhung  with  flowers  of  thought 


332 


EARLY  AND  UNCOLLECTED  POEMS. 


MOUNT  AGIOCHOOK. 

GRAY  searcher  of  the  upper  air! 

There 's    sunshine    on   thy   ancient 

walls — 
A  crown  upon  thy  forehead  bare — 

A  flashing  on  thy  water-falls — 
A  rainbow  glory  in  the  cloud, 
Upon  thine  awful  summit  bowed, 

Dim  relic  of  the  recent  storm! 
And  music,  from  the  leafy  shroud 

Which  wraps   in  green    thy  giant 

form, 
Mellowed  and  softened  from  above, 

Steals  down  upon  the  listening  ear, 
Sweet  as  the  maiden's  dream  of  love, 

Wi^h  soft  tones  melting  on  her  ear. 

The  time  has  been,  gray  mountain, 

when 
Thy  shadows  veiled  the  red  man's 

home; 

And  over  crag  and  serpent  den, 
And  wilcf  gorge,  where  the  steps  of 

men 

In  chase  or  battle  might  not  come, 
The  mountain  eagle  bore  on  high 
The  emblem  of  the  free  of  soul ; 
And  midway  in  the  fearful  sky 
Sent  back  the  Indian's  battle-cry, 
Or  answered  to  the  thunder's  roll. 


The  wigwam   fires   have   all   burned 
out — 

The  moccasin  hath  left  no  track — 
Nor  wolf  nor  wild-deer  roam  about 

The  Saco  or  the  Merrimack. 
And  thou  that  liftest  up  on  high 
Thine  awful  barriers  to  the  sky, 

Art  not  the  haunted  mount  of  old, 
When  on  each  crag  of  blasted  stone 
Some  mountain-spirit  found  a  throne, 

And   shrieked   from   out  the   thick 

cloud-fold, 

And  answered  to  the  Thunderer's  cry 
When  rolled  the  cloud  of  tempest  by, 
And  jutting  rock  and  riven  branch 
Went  down  before  the  avalanche. 
The  Father  of  our  people  then 


Upon  thy  awful  summit  trod, 
And  the  red  dwellers  of  the  glen 
Bowed    down   before   the   Indian's 

God. 
There,  when  His  shadow  veiled  the 

sky, 
The   Thunderer's    voice   was    long 

and  loud, 

And  the  red  flashes  of  His  eye 
Were  pictured  on  the  o'erhanging 
cloud. 

The  Spirit  moveth  there  no  more, 

The  dwellers  of  the  hill  have  gone, 

The  sacred  groves  are  trampled  o'er, 

And  footprints  mar  the  altar-stone. 

The   white    man    climbs    thy    tallest 

rock 
And   hangs    him   from   the   mossy 

steep, 
Where,  trembling  to  the  cloud-fire's 

shock, 

Thy  ancient  prison-walls  unlock, 
And  captive  waters  leap  to  light, 
And  dancing  down  from  height  to 

height, 
Pass  onward  to  the  far-off  deep. 

Oh,  sacred  to  the  Indian  seer, 

Gray  altar  of  the  days  of  old! 
Still  are  thy  rugged  features  dear, 
As  when  unto  my  infant  ear 

The  legends  of  the  past  were  told. 
Tales    of   the     downward     sweeping 

flood, 
When  bowed  like  reeds  thy  ancient 

wood, — • 

Of  armed  hand  and  spectral  form, 
Of  giants  in  their  misty  shroud, 
And  voices  calling  long  and  loud 

In  the  drear  pauses  of  the  storm! 
Farewell!     The    red    man's    face    is 

turned 

Toward  another  hunting-ground; 
For  where  the  council-fire  has  burned, 
And    o'er    the    sleeping     warrior's 

mound 

Another  fire  is  kindled  now: 
Its  light  is  on  the  white  man's  brow! 
The     hunter     race     have     passed 
away — 


METACOM. 


333 


Ay,  vanished  like  the  morning  mist, 
Or      dew-drops      by     the      sunshine 

kissed,— 
And  wherefore  should  the  red  man 

stay? 
1829. 


METACOM. 

RED  as  the  banner  which  enshrouds 
The   warrior-dead    when    strife    is 

done, 
A  broken  mass  of  crimson  clouds 

Hung  over  the  departed  sun. 
The  shadow  of  the  western  hill 
Crept  swiftly  down,  and  darkly  still, 
As  if  a  sullen  wave  of  night 
Were  rushing  on  the  pale  twilight, 
The  forest-openings  grew  more  dim. 
As  glimpses  of  the  arching  blue 
And     waking     stars     came     softly 

through 

The  rifts  of  many  a  giant  limb. 
Above  the  wet  and  tangled  swamp 
White    vapors    gathered    thick    and 

damp, 

And  through  their  cloudy  curtaining 
Flapped    many   a   brown   and    dusky 

wing — 

Pinions  that  fan  the  moonless  dun, 
But  fold  them  at  the  rising  sun! 

Beneath   the  closing  veil  of  night, 

And  leafy  bough  and  curling  fog, 
With  his    few    warriors    ranged    in 

sight — 

Scarred  relics  of  his  latest  fight- 
Rested  the  fiery  Wampanoag. 
He  leaned  upon  his  loaded  gun, 
Warm  with  its  recent  work  of  death, 
And,     save    the    struggling     of    his 

breath 

That,  slow  and  hard,  and  long-sup 
pressed, 
Shook    the    damp    folds    around    his 

breast, 

An  eye,  that  was  unused  to  scan 
The  sterner  moods  of  that  dark  man. 
Had  deemed  his  tall  and  silent  form 
With  hidden  passion  fierce  and  warm, 
With  that  fixed  eye,  as  still  and  dark 


As  clouds  which  veil  their  lightning- 
spark — 

That  of  some  forest-champion 
Whom     sudden     death    had    passed 

upon — 

A  giant  frozen  into  stone. 
Son  of  the  throned  Sachem, — thou, 

The  sternest  of  the  forest  kings, — 
Shall  the   scorned  pale-one    trample 

now, 
Unambushed,      on     thy      mountain's 

brow — 
Yea,  drive  his  vile  and  hated  plough 

Among  thy  nation's  holy  things, 
Crushing  the  warrior-skeleton 
In  scorn  beneath  his  armed  lieel, 
And  not  a  hand  be  left  to  deal 
A  kindred  vengeance  fiercely  back, 
And    cross   in    blood    the    Spoiler's 

track? 

He  started, — for  a  sudden  shot 
Came  booming  through  the  forest- 
trees — • 

The  thunder  of  the  fierce  Yengeese : 
It  passed  away,  and  injured  not; 
But,  to  the  Sachem's  brow  it  brought 
The  token  of  his  lion  thought. 
He  stood  erect — his  dark  eye  burned, 
As  if  to  meteor-brightness  turned ; 
And  o'er    his    forehead    passed    the 

frown 

Of  an  archangel  stricken  down, 
Ruined  and  lost,  yet  chainless  still — 
Weakened   of   power   but    strong    of 

will! 

It  passed — a  sudden  tremor  came 
Like  ague  o'er  his  giant  frame, — 
It  was  not  terror — he  had  stood 
For  hours,  with  death  in  grim  at 
tendance, 
When     moccasins     grew     stiff     with 

blood, 

And    through    the    clearing's    mid 
night  flame, 

Dark,  as  a  storm,  the  Pequod  came, 
His  red  right  arm  their  strong  de 
pendence — 
When    thrilling    through    the    forest 

gloom 
The  onset  cry  of  "  Metacom !  " 

Rang  on  the  red  and  smoky  air! — 


334 


EARLY  AND  UNCOLLECTED  POEMS. 


No — it  was  agony  which  passed 
Upon  his  soul — the  strong  man's  last 
And  fearful  struggle  with  despair. 

He  turned  him  to  his  trustiest  one — 
T  he  old  and  war-tried  Annawon — 
"  Brother  " — the       favored       warrior 

stood 

In  hushed  and  listening  attitude — 
"  This  night  the  Vision-Spirit  hath 
Unrolled  the  scroll  of  fate  before  me ; 
And  ere  the  sunrise  cometh,  Death 
Will  wave  his  dusky  pinion  o'er  me! 
Nay,     start     not — well    I    know    thy 

faith : 
Thy     weapon     now    may     keep     its 

sheath ; 

But  when  the  bodeful  morning  breaks. 
And  the  green  forest  widely  wakes 

Unto  the  roar  of  Yengeese  thunder, 
Then,  trusted  brother,  be  it  thine 
To  burst  upon   the  foeman's  line 
And  rend  his  serried  strength  asun 
der. 

Perchance  thyself  and  yet  a  few 
Of     faithful      ones      may     struggle 

through, 

And,  rallying  on  the  wooded  plain, 
Offer  up  in  Yengeese  blood 
An  offering  to  the  Indian's  God." 

Another  shot — a  sharp,  quick  yell, 

And  then  the  stifled  groan  of  pain, 
Told  that  another  red  man  fell, — 

And  blazed  a  sudden  light  again 
Across  that  kingly  brow  and  eye, 
Like   lightning  on   a   clouded   sky, — 
And   a   low   growl,   like   that   which 

thrills 
The  hunter  of  the  Eastern  hills, 

Burst  through   clenched  teeth  and 

rigid  lip — 

And  when  the  Monarch  spoke  again, 
His  deep  voice  shook  beneath  its  rein, 

And  wrath  and  grief  held  fellow 
ship. 

"Brother!  methought    when    as    but 
now 

I  pondered  on  my  nation's  wrong, 
With  sadness   on  his  shadowy  brow 

My  father's  spirit  passed  along! 


He  pointed  to  the  far  southwest, 

Where  sunset's  gold  was  growing 
dim, 

And  seemed  to  beckon  me  to  him, 
And  to  the  forests  of  the  blest! — 
My  father  loved  the  Yengeese,  when 
They  were  but  children,  shelterless ; 
For  his  great  spirit  at  distress 
Melted  to  woman's  tenderness — 
Nor  was  it  given  him  to  know 

That  children  whom  he  cherished 

then 

Would  rise  at  length,  like  armed  men, 
To   work  his  people's  overthrow. 
Yet  thus  it  is; — the  God  before 

Whose  awful  shrine  the  pale  ones 

bow 
Hath  frowned  upon  and  given  o'er 

The    red    man    to     the     stranger 

now! — 

A  few  more  moons,  and  there  will  be 
No  gathering  to  the  council-tree ; 
The  scorched  earth,  the  blackened  log, 

The  naked  bones  of  warriors  slain, 

Be  the  sole  relics  which  remain 
Of  the  once  mighty  Wampanoag! 
The  forests  of  our  hunting-land, 

With    all     their     old    and     solemn 

green, 

Will  bow  before  the  Spoiler's  axe, 
The     plough     displace    the     hunter's 

tracks, 
And  the  tall  Yengeese  altar  stand 

Where   the    Great     Spirit's     shrine 
hath  been! 


"Yet,  brother,  from  this  awful  hour 

The  dying  curse  of  Metacom 
Shall  linger  with  abiding  power 

Upon  the  spoilers  of  my  home. 

The  fearful  veil  of  things  to  come 

By  Kitchtan's  hand  is  lifted  from 
The  shadows  of  the  embryo  years ; 

And  I  can  see  more  clearly  through 
Than  ever  visioned  Powwow  did, 
For  all  the  future  comes  unbid 

Yet  welcome  to  my  tranced  view, 
As  battle-yell  to  warrior-ears! 
From  stream  and  lake  and  hunting-hill 

Our    tribes    may    vanish     like    a 
dream, 


THE  FRATRICIDE. 


335 


And    even    my    dark     curse     may 
seem 

Like  idle  winds  when  Heaven  is  still — 
No  bodeful  harbinger  of  ill, 

But  fiercer  than  the  downright  thun 
der 

When  yawns  the  mountain-rock  asun 
der, 

And  riven  pine  and  knotted  oak 

Are  reeling  to  the  fearful  stroke, 
That  curse  shall  work  its  master's 
will! 

The  bed  of  yon  blue  mountain  stream 

Shall  pour  a  darker  tide  than  rain — • 

The  sea  shall  catch  its  blood-red  stain, 

And  broadly  on  its  banks  shall  gleam 
The  steel  of  those  who  should  be 
brothers — 

Yea,   those   whom  one   fond   parent 
nursed 

Shall  meet  in   strife,  like  fiends  ac 
cursed, 

And  trample   down  the  once   loved 
form, 

While    yet    with    breathing  passion 

warm, 

As     fiercely    as     they    would    an 
other's  ! " 

The  morning  star  sat  dimly  on 
The  lighted  eastern  horizon — 
The  deadly  glare  of  levelled  gun 
Came    streaking   through   the   twi 
light  haze, 

And  naked  to  its  reddest  blaze 
A  hundred  warriors  sprang  in  view : 
One  dark  red  arm  was  tossed  on 

high — 
One     giant     shout     came     hoarsely 

through 

The  clangor  and  the  charging  cry, 
Just  as  across  the  scattering  gloom, 
Red  as  the  naked  hand  of  Doom, 

The  Yengeese  volley  hurtled  by — 

The  arm — the  voice  of  Metacom!— 

One  piercing  shriek — one  vengeful 

yell, 

Sent  like  an  arrow  to  the  sky, 
Told    when    the     hunter-monarch 

fell! 
1829. 


THE  FRATRICIDE. 

[In  the  recently  published  "History  of  Wy 
oming," — a  valley  rendered  classic  ground  by 
the  poetry  of  Campbell, — in  an  account  of  the 
attack  of  Brandt  and  Butler  on  the  settle 
ments  in  1778,  a  fearful  circumstance  is  men 
tioned.  A  Tory,  who  had  joined  the  Indians 
and  British,  discovered  his  own  brother,  whilst 
pursuing  the  Americans,  and,  deaf  to  his  en 
treaties,  deliberately  presented  his  rifle  and 
shot  him  dead  on  the  spot.  The  murderer 
fled  to  Canada.] 

HE  stood  on  the  brow  of  the  well- 
known  hill, 

Its  few  gray  oaks  moan'd  over  him 
still— 

The  last  of  that  forest  which  cast  the 
gloom 

Of  its  shadow  at  eve  o'er  his  child 
hood's  home; 

And  the  beautiful  valley  beneath  him 
lay 

With  its  quivering  leaves,  and  its 
streams  at  play, 

And  the  sunshine  over  it  all  the 
while 

Like  the  golden  shower  of  the  East 
ern  isle. 

He  knew  the  rock  with  its  fingering 

vine, 
And  its  gray  top  touch'd  by  the  slant 

sunshine, 
And  the  delicate  stream  which  crept 

beneath 

Soft  as  the  flow  of  an  infant's  breath ; 
And  the  flowers  which  lean'd  to  the 

West  wind's  sigh, 

Kissing  each  ripple  which  glided  by; 
And    he    knew     every    valley     and 

wooded  swell, 
For  the  visions    of    childhood    are 

treasured  well. 


Why  shook  the  old  man  as  his  eye 

glanced  down 
That  narrow  ravine  where  the  rude 

cliffs  frown, 


336 


EARLY  AND  UNCOLLECTED  POEMS. 


With  their   shaggy  brows   and  their 

teeth  of  stone, 
And  their  grim  shade  back  from  the 

sunlight  thrown? 
What  saw  he  there  save  the  dreary 

glen, 
Where  the  shy  fox  crept  from  the  eye 

of  men, 
And  the  great  owl  sat  in  the  leafy 

limb 
That  the  hateful  sun  might  not  look 

on  him? 

Fix'd,  glassy,  and  strange  was  that 
old  man's  eye, 

As  if  a  spectre  were  stealing  by, 

And  glared  it  still  on  that  narrow 
dell 

Where  thicker  and  browner  the  twi 
light  fell ; 

Yet  at  every  sigh  of  the  fitful  wind, 

Or  stirring  of  leaves  in  the  wood 
behind, 

His  wild  glance  wander'd  the  land 
scape  o'er, 

Then  fix'd  on  that  desolate  dell  once 
more. 

Oh,  who  shall  tell  of  the  thoughts 
which  ran 

Through  the  dizzied  brain  of  that 
gray  old  man? 

His  childhood's  home — and  his 
father's  toil — 

And  his  sister's  kiss — and  his  moth 
er's  smile — • 

And  his  brother's  laughter  and  game 
some  mirth, 

At  the  village  school  and  the  winter 
hearth — 

The  beautiful  thoughts  of  his  early 
time, 

Ere  his  heart  grew  dark  with  its  later 
crime. 

And  darker  and  wilder  his  visions 
came 

Of  the  deadly  feud  and  the  midnight 
flame, 

Of  the  Indian's  knife  with  its  slaugh 
ter  red, 


Of  the  ghastly  forms  of  ths  scalpless 
dead, 

Of  his  own  fierce  deeds  in  that  fear 
ful  hour 

When  the  terrible  Brandt  was  forth 
in  power, — 

And  he  clasp'd  his  hands  o'er  his 
burning  eye 

To  shadow  the  vision  which  glided 
by. 

It  came  with  the  rush  of  the  battle- 
storm — 

With  a  brother's  shaken  and  kneeling 
form, 

And  his  prayer  for  life  when  a  broth 
er's  arm 

Was  lifted  above  him  for  mortal 
harm, 

And  the  fiendish  curse,  and  the  groan 
of  death, 

And  the  welling  of  blood,  and  the 
gurgling  breath, 

And  the  scalp  torn  off  while  each 
nerve  could  feel 

The  wrenching  hand  and  the  jagged 
steel! 

And    the    old    man    groan'd — for   he 

saw,  again, 
The  mangled  corse  of  his   kinsman 

slain, 
As  it  lay  where  his  hand  had  hurl'd 

it  then, 
At  the  shadow'd  foot  of  that  fearful 

glen  !— 
And  it  rose  erect,  with  the  death-pang 

grim, 
And   pointed    its    bloodied   finger   at 

him! — 
And   his    heart   grew   cold — and   the 

curse  of  Cain 
Burn'd  like  a  fire  in  the  old  man's 

brain. 

Oh,   had  he  not    seen    that  spectre 

rise 
On   the  blue  of  the   cold   Canadian 

skies? — 
From  the  lakes   which   sleep   in  the 

ancient  wood, 


ETERNITY. 


337 


It  had  risen  to  whisper  its  tale  of 
blood, 

And  follow'd  his  bark  to  the  sombre 
shore, 

And  glared  by  night  through  the  wig 
wam  door; 

And  here — on  his  own  familiar  hill — 

It  rose  on  his  haunted  vision  still! 

Whose    corse    was    that    which     the 

morrow's  sun, 
Through  the  opening  boughs,  look'd 

calmly  on? 
There  where  those  who  bent  o'er  that 

rigid  face 
Who  well  in  its  darken'd  lines  might 

trace 
The  features  of  him  who,  a  traitor, 

fled 
From  a  brother  whose  blood  himself 

had  shed, 
And    there — on   the   spot   where    he 

strangely  died — 

They  made  the  grave  of  the  Fratri 
cide! 
1831. 


ETERNITY. 

[This  poem  was  written  by  Mr.  Whittier  in 
1831,  and  was  printed  in  the  New  England 
Kevie-w,  which  paper  he  was  then  editing.  It 
\%as  signed  "Adrian,"  as  were  many  of  his 
early  poems.] 

BOUNDLESS     Eternity!     the     winged 

sands 

That  mark  the  silent  lapse  of  flit 
ting  time 
Are  not  for  thee;  thine  awful  empire 

stands 
From  age   to    age,     unchangeable, 

sublime : 
Thy     domes     are     spread    where 

thought  can  never  climb, 
In  clouds  and  darkness,  where  vast 

pillars  rest. 
I   may  not   fathom   thee:   'twould 

seem  a  crime 

Thy  being  of  its  mystery  to  divest, 
Or  boldly  lift  thine  awful  veil   with 
hands  unblest. 


Thy  ruins  are  the  wrecks  of  systems ; 

suns 
Blaze  a  brief  space  of  ages,  and  are 

not; 
Worlds  crumble  and  decay,  creation 

runs 

To  waste — then  perishes  and  is  for 
got; 
Yet   thou,    all    changeless,    heedest 

not  the  blot. 

Heaven  speaks   once  more  in  thun 
der;  empty  space 
Trembles  and  wakes;  new  worlds 

in  ether  flit, 
Teeming  with  new  creative  life,  and 

trace 

Their  mighty  circles,  such  as  others 
shall  displace. 

Thine    age    is    youth,    thy    youth    is 

hoary  age, 

Ever  beginning,  never  ending,  thou 
Bearest    inscribed    upon    thy    ample 

page, 

Yesterday,  forever,  but  as  now 
Thou  art,  thou  hast  been,  shalt  be : 

though 

I  feel  myself  immortal,  when  on  thee 
I    muse,    I    shrink   to    nothingness. 

and  bow 

Myself  before  thee,  dread  Eternity, 
With  God  coeval,  coexisting,  still  to 
be. 

I  go  with  thee  till  Time  shall  be  no 

more, 

I   stand  with  thee  on   Time's   re 
motest  verge, 
Ten   thousand  years,    ten    thousand 

times  told  o'er; 
Still,    still    with    thee    my    onward 

course  I  urge; 

And  now  no  longer  hear  the  end 
less  surge 
Of  Time's  light  billows  breaking  on 

the  shore 
Of   distant   earth;     no    more    the 

solemn  dirge — 

Requiem   of  worlds,  when  such  are 
numbered  o'er — 


333 


EARLY  AND  UNCOLLECTED  POEMS. 


Steals  by:  still  thou  art  moving  on 
forevermore. 

From  that  dim  distance  would  I  turn 

to  gaze 
With  fondly  searching  glance,  upon 

the  spot 
Of  brief  existence,  where  I  met  the 

blaze 

Of  morning,  bursting  on  my  hum 
ble  cot, 
And   gladness     whispered    of    my 

happy  lot ; 
And  now  't  is  dwindled  to  a  point — 

a  speck — 
And  now  't  is  nothing,  and  my  eye 

may  not 

Longer  distinguish  it  amid  the  wreck 
Of  worlds   in  ruins,  crushed   at  the 
Almighty's  beck. 

Time — what  is  Time  to  thee?  a  pass 
ing  thought 
To    twice    ten    thousand    ages — a 

faint  spark 
To  twice  ten  thousand  suns;  a  fibre 

wrought 

Into  tht  web  of  infinite — a  cork 
Balanced  against    the    world:    we 

hardly  mark 
Its  being — even  its  name  hath  ceased 

to  be; 
Thy  wave  hath  swept  it  from  us, 

and  thy  dark 

Mantle  of  years,  in  dim  obscurity 
Hath    shrouded   it   around:     Time — 
what  is  Time  to  thee! 


ISABELLA  OF  AUSTRIA. 

["Isabella,  Infanta  of  Parma,  and  consort  of 
Joseph  of  Austria,  predicted  her  own  death, 
immediately  after  her  marriage  with  the 
Emperor.  Amidst  the  gayety  and  splendor  of 
Vienna  and  Presburgr,  she  was  reserved  and 
melancholy;  she  believed  that  Heaven  had 
given  her  a  view  of  the  future,  and  that  her 
child,  the  namesake  of  the  great  Maria 
Theresa,  would  perish  with  her.  Her  predic 
tion  was  fulfilled^"] 


MIDST  the  palace-bowers  of  Hungary, 

— imperial  Presburg's  pride, — 
With  the  noble-born    and    beautiful 

assembled   at  her  side, 
She     stood,     beneath     the     summer 

heaven, — the    soft   winds   sighing 

on, 
Stirring  the  green  and  arching  boughs, 

like  dancers  in  the  sun. 
The  beautiful  pomegranate's  gold,  the 

snowy  orange-bloom, 
The  lotus  and  the  creeping  vine,  the 

rose's  meek  perfume, 
The  willow  crossing  with  its  green 

some  statue's  marble  hair, — 
All    that    might    charm    th'    exquisite 

sense,  or  light  the  soul,  was  there. 

But  she, — a  monarch's  treasured  one 

— lean'd  gloomily  apart, 
With    her    dark    eye    tearfully    cast 

down  and  a  shadow  on  her  heart. 
Young,   beautiful,    and    dearly   loved, 

what  sorrow  hath  she  known? 
Are  not  the  hearts  and  swords  of  all 

held  sacred  as  her  own? 
Is  not  her  lord  the  kingliest  in  battle 
field  or  bower? — 
The  foremost  in  the  council-hall,   or 

at  the  banquet  hour? 
Is  not  his  love  as  pure  and  deep  as 

his  own  Danube's  tide? 
And  wherefore  in  her  princely  home 

weeps  Isabel,  his  bride? 

She    raised    her    jewell'd   hand    and 

flung  her  veiling  tresses  back, 
Bathing    its    snowy    tapering    within 

their  glossy  black. — 
A  tear  fell  on  the  orange  leaves; — 

rich  gem  and  mimic  blossom, 
And   fringed    robe    shook    fearfully 

upon  her  sighing  bosom: 
"  Smile  on,  smile  on,"  she  murmur'd 

low,  "  for  all  is  joy  around, 
Shadow  and   sunshine,   stainless   sky, 

soft  airs,  and  blossom'd  ground; 
Tis  meet  the  light  of  heart  should 

smile  when  nature's  brow  is  fair, 
And  melody  and  fragrance  meet,  twin 

sisters  of  the  air! 


ISABELLA  OF  AUSTRIA. 


339 


"  But  ask  not  me  to  share  with  you 
the  beauty  of  the  scene — 

The  fountain-fall,  mosaic  walk,  and 
tessellated  green; 

And  point  not  to  the  mild  blue  sky, 
or  glorious  summer  sun : 

I  know  how  very  fair  is  all  the  hand 
of  God  hath  done — 

The  hills,  the  sky,  the  sun-lit  cloud, 
the  fountain  leaping  forth, 

The  swaying  trees,  the  scented  flow 
ers,  the  dark  green  robes  of 
earth— 

I  love  them  still;  yet  I  have  learn'd 
to  turn  aside  from  all, 

And  never  more  my  heart  must  own 
their  sweet  but  fatal  thrall! 


"  And   I    could   love   the   noble  one 

whose  mighty  name  I  bear, 
And  closer  to  my  bursting  heart  his 

hallow'd   image    wear ; 
And  I  could  watch  our  sweet  young 

flower,  unfolding  day  by  day, 
And    taste    of    that   unearthly   bliss 

which  mothers  only  may; 
But  no,   I  may  not  cling  to   earth — 

that  voice  is  in  my  ear, 
That  shadow  lingers  by  my  side — the 

death-wail  and  the  bier, 
The  cold  and  starless  night  of  death 

where  day  may  never  beam, 
The   silence   and   the   loathsomeness. 

the  sleep  which  hath  no  dream! 

"O    God!    to   leave  this   fair   bright 

world,   and,   more   than    all,    to 

know 
The  moment  when  the  Spectral  One 

shall  deal  his  fearful  blow ; 
To  know  the  day,  the  very  hour;  to 

feel  the  tide  roll  on; 
To  shudder  at  the  gloom  before,  and 

weep  the  sunshine  gone; 
To  count  the  days,  the  few  short  days, 

of  light  and  life  and  breath, — 
Between  me  and  the  noisome  grave — 

the  voiceless  home  of  death, — 
Alas! — if,   knowing,    feeling    this,    I 

murmur  at  my  doom, 


Let  not   thy    frowning,    O   my   God! 
lend  darkness  to  the  tomb. 


"  Oh,  I  have  borne  my  spirit  up,  and 

smiled  amid  the  chill 
Remembrance   of   my   certain    doom, 

which  lingers  with  me  still: 
I   would   not   cloud  our   fair   child's 

brow,  nor  let  a  tear-drop  dim 
The  eye  that  met  my  wedded  lord's, 

lest  it  should  sadden  him. 
But   there  are  moments    when    the 

gush  of  feeling  hath  its  way; 
That  hidden  tide  of  unnamed  woe  nor 

fear  nor  love  may  stay. 
Smile    on,    smile    on,    light-hearted 

ones,  your  sun  of  joy  is  high ; 
Smile  on,  and  leave  the  doom'd  of 

Heaven  alone  to  weep  and  die." 


A  funeral  chant  was  wailing  through 

Vienna's  holy  pile; 
A  coffin  with  its  gorgeous  pall  was 

borne  along  the  aisle; 
The  banners  of  a  kingly  race  waved 

high  above  the  dead; 
A  mighty  band  of  mourners  came — 

a  king  was  at  its  head, 
A  youthful  king,  with  mournful  tread 

and  dim  and  tearful  eye — 
He  had  not  dream'd  that  one  so  pure 

as  his  fair  bride  could  die ; 
And  sad  and  wild  above  the  throng 

the  funeral  anthem  rung: 
"Mourn    for    the    hope   of   Austria! 

Mourn  for  the  loved  and  young!  " 

The  wail  went  up  from  other  lands — 
the  valleys  of  the  Hun, 

Fair  Parma  with  its  orange  bowers 
and  hills  of  vine  and  sun; 

The  lilies  of  imperial  France  droop'd 
as  the  sound  went  by, 

The  long  lament  of  cloister'd  Spain 
was  mingled  with  the  cry; 

The  dwellers  in  Colorno's  halls,  the 
Slowak  at  his  cave, 

The  bow'd  at  the  Escurial,  the  Mag 
yar  sternly  brave — 


340 


EARLY  AND  UNCOLLECTED  POEMS. 


All  wept  the  early-stricken  flower, 
and  burst  from  every  tongue : 

"Mourn  for  the  dark-eyed  Isabel! 
Mourn  for  the  loved  and  young!  " 

1831. 


STANZAS. 

["Art  thou  beautiful?  — Live,  then,  in  ac 
cordance  with  the  curious  make  and  frame  of 
thy  creation;  and  let  the  beauty  of  thy  person 
teach  thee  to  beautify  thy  mind  with  holiness, 
the  ornament  of  the  beloved  of  God."— 
WILLIAM  PENN.] 

BIND  up  thy  tresses,  thou  beautiful 

.  one, 
Of  brown  in  the  shadow  and  gold  in 

the  sun! 
Free  should  their  delicate  lustre  be 

thrown 
O'er  a  forehead  more  pure  than  the 

Parian  stone — 
Shaming   the    light   of   those    Orient 

pearls 
Which  bind  o'er  its  whiteness  thy  soft 

wreathing  curls. 

Smile — for  thy  glance  on  the  mirror 

is  thrown, 
And  the  face  of  an  angel  is  meeting 

thine  own! 

Beautiful  creature— I  marvel  not 
That  thy  cheek  a  lovelier  tint  hath 

caught ; 
And  the  kindling  light  of  thine  eye 

hath  told 
Of  a  dearer  wealth  than  the  miser's 

gold. 

Away,  away — there  is  danger  here — 
A  terrible  phantom  is  bending  near; 
Ghastly  and  sunken,  his  rayless  eye 
Scowls  on  thy  loveliness  scornfully — 
With  no  human  look — with  no  hu 
man  breath, 

He  stands  beside  thee, — the  haunter, 
DEATH  ! 


Fly!  but,  alas!  he  will  follow  still, 
Like  a  moonlight  shadow,  beyond  thy 
will ; 


In  thy  noon-day  walk — in  thy  mid 
night  sleep, 

Close  at  thy  hand  will  that  phantom 
keep — 

Still  in  thine  ear  shall  his  whispers 
be— 

Woe,  that  such  phantom  should  fol 
low  thee! 

In  the  lighted  hall  where  the  dancers 

go, 

Like  beautiful  spirits,  to  and  fro ; 
When  thy  fair  arms  glance  in  their 

stainless  white, 

Like  ivory  bathed  in  still  moonlight; 
And  not  one  star  in  the  holy  sky 
Hath  a  clearer  light  than  thine  own 

blue  eye! 

Oh,  then — even  then — he  will  follow 

thee, 
As  the  ripple    follows    the    bark    at 

sea; 
In  the  soften'd  light — in  the  turning 

dance — 
He  will  fix  on  thine  his  dead,  cold 

glance — 
The  chill  of  his  breath  on  thy  cheek 

shall  linger, 
And  thy  warm  blood  shrink  from  his 

icy  finger! 

And  yet  there  is  rfope.  Embrace  it 
now, 

While  thy  soul  is  open  as  thy  brow; 

While  thy  heart  is  fresh — while  its 
feelings  still 

Gush  clear  as  the  unsoil'd  mountain- 
rill— 

And  thy  smiles  are  free  as  the  airs  of 
spring, 

Greeting  and  blessing  each  breathing 
thing. 

When  the  after  cares  of  thy  life  shall 
come, 

When  the  bud  shall  wither  before  its 
bloom ; 

When  thy  soul  is  sick  of  the  empti 
ness 

And  changeful  fashion  of  human 
bliss; 


And  still,  within  the  churchyard  ground, 
Heaves  darkly  up  the  ancient  mound, 
Beneath  whose  grass-grown  surface  lies 
Victims  of  that  sacrifice. 


THE  MISSIONARY. 


341 


And    the    weary    torpor    of    blighted 

feeling 
Over  thy  heart  as  ice  is  stealing — 

Then,  when  thy  spirit  is  turn'd  above, 
By  the  mild  rebuke  of  the  Chastener's 

love; 
When  the  hope   of  that  joy  in  thy 

heart  is  stirr'd, 
Which   eye  hath    not   seen,  nor   ear 

hath  heard, — 
THEN  will  that  phantom  of  darkness 

be 
Gladness,  and  Promise,  and  Bliss  to 

thee. 
1832. 


THE  MISSIONARY. 

["It  is  an  awful,  an  arduous  thing  to  root 
out  every  affection  for  earthly  things,  so  as  to 
live  only  for  another  world.  I  am  now  far, 
very  far,  from  you  all;  and  as  often  as  I  look 
arpund  and  see  the  Indian  scenery,  I  sigh  to 
think  of  the  distance  which  separates  us." — 
Letters  of  Henry  M arty  n  from  India^ 

"  SAY,   whose  is    this    fair    picture, 

which  the  light 
From  the  unshutter'd  window  rests 

upon 

Even  as  a  lingering  halo? — Beautiful! 
The  keen,  fine  eye  of  manhood,  and 

a  lip 

Lovely  as  that  of  Hylas,  and  impress'd 
With  the  bright  signet  of  some  bril 
liant  thought — • 
That    broad    expanse    of    forehead, 

clear  and  high, 
Mark'd  visibly  with  the  characters  of 

mind, 
And  the  free  locks  around  it,  raven 

black, 
Luxuriant  and  unsilver'd — who   was 

he?" 

A  frrend,  -a  more  than  brother.     In 

the  spring 

And  glory  of  his  being  he  went  forth 
From     the     embraces     of     devoted 

friends, 


From  ease  and  quiet  happiness,  from 
more — • 

From  the  warm  heart  that  loved  him 
with  a  love 

Holier  than  earthly  passion,  and  to 
whom 

The  beauty  of  his  spirit  shone  above 

The  charms  of  perishing  nature.  He 
went  forth 

Strengthen'd  to  suffer — gifted  to  sub 
due 

The  might  of  human  passion — to  pass 
on 

Quietly  to  the  sacrifice  of  all 

The  lofty  hopes  of  boyhood,  and  to 
turn 

The  high  ambition  written  on  that 
brow, 

From  its  first  dream  of  power  and 
human  fame, 

tlnto  a  task  of  seeming  lowliness — 

Yet  God-like  in  its  purpose.  He  went 
forth 

To  bind  the  broken  spirit — to  pluck 
back 

The  heathen  from  the  wheel  of  Jug 
gernaut — 

To  place  the  spiritual  image  of  a  God 

Holy  and  just  and  true,  before  the 
eye 

Of  the  dark-minded  Brahmin — and 
unseal 

The  holy  pages  of  the  Book  of  Life, 

Fraught  with  sublimer  mysteries  than 
all 

The  sacred  tomes  of  Vedas— to  un 
bind 

The  widow  from  her  sacrifice— and 
save 

The  perishing  infant  from  the  wor- 
shipp'd  river! 


"  And,  lady,  where  is  he?  "  He  slum 
bers  well 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  an  Indian 
palm. 

There  is  no  stone  above  his  grave. 
The  wind, 

Hot  from  the  desert,  as  it  stirs  the 
leaves 


EARLY  AND  UNCOLLECTED  POEMS. 


Of  neighboring  bananas,  sighs  alone 
Over  his  place  of  slumber. 

"  God  forbid 

That  he  should  die  alone !  " — Nay, 
not  alone. 

His  God  was  with  him  in  that  last 
dread  hour — 

His  great  arm  underneath  him,  and 
His  smile 

Melting  into  a  spirit  full  of  peace. 

And  one  kind  friend,  a  human  friend, 
was  near — 

One  whom  his  teachings  and  his  ear 
nest  prayers 

Had  snatch'd  as  from  the  burning. 
He  alone 

Felt  the  last  pressure  of  his  failing 
hand, 

Caught  the  last  glimpses  of  his  clos 
ing  eye, 

And  laid  the  green  turf  over  him 
with  tears, 

And  left  him  with  his  God. 


"  And  was  it  well, 
Dear    lady,    that    this    noble    mind 

should  cast 
Its  rich  gifts  on  the  waters? — That  a 

heart 
Full  of  all  gentleness  and  truth  and 

love 

Should  wither  on  the  suicidal  shrine 
Of  a  mistaken  duty?     If  I  read 
Aright  the  fine  intelligence  which  fills 
That  amplitude  of  brow,  and  gazes 

out 
Like  an  indwelling  spirit  from  that 

eye, 
He  might   have    borne    him    loftily 

among 
The  proudest  of  his  land,  and  with 

a  step 

Unfaltering    ever,    steadfast   and   se 
cure, 
Gone   up   the   paths   of   greatness,— 

bearing  still 

A  sister  spirit  with  him,  as  some  star, 
Pre-eminent  in  Heaven,  leads  steadily 

up 


A  kindred  watcher,   with  its  fainter 

beams 
Baptized  in  its  great  glory.     Was  it 

well 
That  all   this  promise  of  the  heart 

and  mind 
Should  perish   from  the   earth,   and 

leave  no  trace, 
Unfolding   like  the    Cereus    of    the 

clime 
Which  hath  its  sepulchre,  but  in  the 

night 
Of  pagan  desolation — was  it  well?  " 

Thy  will  be  done,  O  Father! — it  was 
well. 

What  are  the  honors  of  a  perishing 
world 

Grasp'd  by  a  palsied  finger? — the  ap 
plause 

Of  the  unthoughtful  multitude  which 
greets 

The  dull  ear  of  decay?— the  wealth 
that  loads 

The  bier  with  costly  drapery,  and 
shines 

In  tinsel  on  the  coffin,  and  builds  up 

The  cold  substantial  monument  ?  Can 
these 

Bear  up  the  sinking  spirit  in  that 
hour 

When  heart  and  flesh  are  failing,  and 
the  grave 

Is  opening  under  us?  Oh,  dearer 
then 

The  memory  of  a  kind  deed  done  to 
him 

Who  was  our  enemy,  one  grateful 
tear 

In  the  meek  eye  of  virtuous  suffer 
ing^ 

One  smile  call'd  up  by  unseen  charity 

On  the  wan  cheek  of  hunger,  or  one 
prayer 

Breathed  from  the  bosom  of  the  peni 
tent— 

The  stain'd  with  crime  and  outcast, 
unto  whom 

Our  mild  rebuke  and  tenderness  of 
love 

A  merciful  God  hath  bless'd. 


THE  MISSIONARY. 


343 


"But,  lady,  say, 

Did  he  not  sometimes  almost  sink 
beneath 

The  burden  of  his  toil,  and  turn  aside 

To  weep  above  his  sacrifice,  and  cast 

A  sorrowing  glance  upon  his  child 
hood's  home — 

Still  green  in  memory?  Clung  not 
to  his  heart 

Something  of  earthly  hope  uncruci- 
fied, 

Of  earthly  thought  unchasten'd?  Did 
he  bring 

Life's  warm  affections  to  the  sacri 
fice — 

Its  loves,  hopes,  sorrows — and  be 
come  as  one 

Knowing  no  kindred  but  a  perishing 
world, 

No  love  but  of  the  sin-endangered 
soul, 

No  hope  but  of  the  winning  back  to 
life 

Of  the  dead  nations,  and  no  passing 
thought 

Save  of  the  errand  wherewith  he  was 
sent 

As  to  a  martyrdom?" 

Nay,   though  the  heart 

Be  consecrated  to  the  holiest  work 

Vouchsafed  to  mortal  effort,  there 
will  be 

Ties  of  the  earth  around  it,  and. 
through  all 

Its  perilous  devotion,  it  must  keep 

Its  own  humanity.     And  it  is  well. 

Else  why  wept  He,  who  with  our  na 
ture  veil'd 

The  spirit  of  a  God,  o'er  lost  Jeru 
salem, 

And  the  cold  grave  of  Lazarus?  And 
why 

In  the  dim  garden  rose  his  earnest 
prayer, 

That  from  his  lips  the  cup  of  suffer 
ing 

Might  pass,  if  it  were  possible? 

My  friend 
Was  of  a  gentle  nature,  and  his  heart 


Gush'd    like   a   river-fountain   of  the 

hills, 
Ceaseless    and    lavish,    at    a    kindly 

smile, 
A  word  of  welcome,   or  a  tone  of 

love. 

Freely  his  letters  to  his  friends  dis 
closed 
His  yearnings  for  the  quiet  haunts  of 

home — 
For  love  and  its  companionship,  and 

all 
The   blessings    left   behind   him;    yet 

above 
Its  sorrows. and  its  clouds  his  spirit 

rose, 
Tearful   and   yet   triumphant,    taking 

hold 

Of  the  eternal  promises  of  God, 
And  steadfast  in  its  faith.     Here  are 

some  lines 
Penn'd   in   his   lonely   mission-house, 

and  sent 
To   a   dear   friend  of  his   who   even 

now 
Lingers  above  them  with  a  mournful 

joy, 
Holding  them  well  nigh  sacred — as  a 

leaf 

Pluck'd  from  the  record  of  a  break 
ing  heart. 

AN   EVENING  IN  BURMAH. 

A  night  of  wonder! — piled  afar 
With  ebon  feet  and  crests  of  snow, 

Like  Himalayah's  peaks,  which  bar 

The  sunset  and  the  sunset's  star 
From  half  the  shadow'd  vale  below, 

Volumed  and  vast  the  dense  clouds 
lie, 

And  over  them,  and   down  the  sky, 
Broadly  and  pale  the  lightnings  go. 

Above,  the  pleasant  moon  is  seen, 
Pale   journeyer  to  her   own  loved 

West! 

Like  some  bright  spirit  sent  between 
The  earth  and  heaven,  she  seems  to 

lean 

Wearily  on  the  cloud  and  rest ; 
And  light  from  her  unsullied  brow 


344 


EARLY  AND  UNCOLLECTED  POEMS. 


That  gloomy  cloud  is  gathering  now 
Along  each  wreath'd  and  whitening 
crest. 

And  what   a   strength   of   light   and 

shade 

Is  checkering  all  the  earth  below ! — 
And    through    the    jungle's    verdant 

braid 

Of  tangled  vine  and  wild  reed  made, 
What   blossoms    in   the   moonlight 

glow ! — 

The  Indian  rose's  loveliness, 
The  ceiba  with  its  crimson  dress, 
The  myrtle  with  its  bloom  of  snow. 

And  flitting  in  the  fragrant  air, 
Or  nestling  in  the  shadowy  trees, 

A   thousand    bright-hued    birds    are 
there — 

Strange  plumage  quivering,  wild  and 

rare, 
With  every  faintly-breathing  breeze ; 

And,  wet  with  dew  from  roses  shed, 

The  Bulbul  droops  her  weary  head, 
Forgetful  of  her  melodies. 

Uprising  from  the  orange  leaves 
The  tall  pagoda's  turrets  glow; 
O'er  graceful  shaft  and  fretted  eaves 
Its  verdant  web  the  myrtle  weaves, 
And  hangs  in  flowering  wreaths  be 
low; 

And  where  the  cluster' d  palms  eclipse 

The  moonbeams,  from  its  marble  lips 

The  fountain's  silver  waters  flow. 

Yes,  all  is  lovely— earth  and  air—       | 
As  aught  beneath  the  sky  may  be ; 

And  yet  my  thoughts  are  wandering 
where 

My  native  rocks  lie  bleak  and  bare — 
A  weary  way  beyond  the  sea. 

The  yearning  spirit  is  not  here; 

It  lingers  on  a  spot  more  dear 
Than   India's   brightest  bowers   to 
me. 

Methinks    I    tread    the     well-known 
street— 


The  tree    my    childhood    loved  is 

there, 

Its  bare-worn  roots  are  at  my  feet, 
And  through  its  open  boughs  I  meet 
White   glimpses   of    the    place    of 

prayer — 

And  unforgotten  eyes  again 
Are    glancing    through    the    cottage 

pane, 

Than   Asia's    lustrous     eyes    more 
fair. 

What  though,  with  every  fitful  gush 
Of  night-wind,   spicy  odors  come; 

And  hues  of  beauty  glow  and  flush 

From    matted    vine    and    wild    rose 
bush; 
And  music's  sweetest,  faintest  hum 

Steals  through  the  moonlight,  as  in 
dreams, — 

Afar  from  all  my  spirit  seems  . 
Amid  the  dearer  scenes  of  HOME! 

A  holy  name — the  name  of  home! — 
Yet  where,  O  wandering  heart,  is 
thine  ? 

Here  where  the  dusky  heathen  come 

To  bow  before  the  deaf  and  dumb, 
Dead  idols  of  their  own  design, 

Where   deep    in    Ganges'    worshipp'd 
tide 

The  infant  sinks — and  on  its  side 
The  widow's  funeral  altars  shine! 

Here,  where  'mid  light  and  song  and 
flowers 

The  priceless  soul  in  ruin  lies — 
Lost — dead  to  all  those  better  p'  wers 
Which  link  a  fallen  world  like  ours 

To  God's  own  holy  Paradise; 
Where  open  sin  and  hideous  crime 
Are  like  the  foliage  of  their  clime — • 

The  unshorn  growth  of  centuries! 

Turn,  then,  my  heart — thy  home   is 

here ; 

No  other  now  remains  for  thee : — • 
The  smile  of   love,  and   friendship's 

tear, 
The  tones  that  melted  on  thine  ear, 

The  mutual  thrill  of  sympathy, 
The  welcome  of  the  household  band, 


MASSACHUSETTS. 


345 


The  pressure  of  the  lip  and  hand, 
Thou  mayest  not  hear,  nor  feel,  nor 
see. 

God  of  my  spirit! — Thou,  alone, 
Who    watchest    o'er    my    pillowed 

head, 

Whose  ear  is  open  to  the  moan 
And    sorrowing    of    thy    child,    hast 

known 
The  grief  which  at  my  heart  has 

fed,— 

The  struggle  of  my  soul  to  rise 
Above  its  earth-born  sympathies, — 
The  tears  of  many  a  sleepless  bed! 

Oh,  be  Thine  arm,  as  it  hath  been, 
In  every  test  of  heart  and  faith — 

The   Tempter's   doubt — the   wiles   of 
men — 

The  heathen's  scoff— the  bosom  sin— 
A  helper  and  a  stay  beneath, 

A   strength    in    weakness    'mid    the 
strife 

And  anguish  of  my  wasting  life — 
My  solace  and  my  hope  in  death! 

1833- 


MASSACHUSETTS. 

[Written  on  hearing  that  the  Resolutions  rf 
the  Legislature  of  Massachusetts  on  the  sub 
ject  of  Slavery,  presented  by  Hon.  C.  GUSH 
ING  to  the  House  of  Representatives  of  the 
United  States,  have  been  laid  on  the  table  un 
read  and  unreferred,  under  the  infamous  rule 
of  "PATTON'S  RESOLUTION."] 

AND  have  they  spurn'd  thy  word, 

Thou  of  the  old  THIRTEEN! 
Whose   soil,  where  Freedom's  blood 

first  pour'd 

Hath  yet  a  darker  green? 
Tread  the  weak  Southron's  pride  and 

lust 
Thy  name  and  councils  in  the  dust? 

And  have  they  closed  thy  mouth, 
And  fixed  the  padlock  fast? 

Slave  of  the  mean  and  tyrant  South! 
Is  this  thy  fate  at  last? 


Old  Massachusetts!  can  it  be 
That   thus   thy   sons   must   speak  of 
thee? 

Call  from  the  Capitol 

Thy  chosen  ones   again — 

Unmeet  for  them  the  base  control 
Of   Slavery's  curbing  rein! 

Unmeet  for  necks  like  theirs  to  feel 

The  chafing  of  the  despot's  heel! 

Call  back  to  Quincy's  shade 
That  steadfast  son  of  thine ; 

Go — if  thy  homage  must  be  paid 
To  Slavery's  pagod-shrine, 

Seek  out  some  meaner  offering  than 

The  free-born  soul  of  that  old  man. 

Call  that  true  spirit  back, 
So  eloquent  and  young; 

In  his  own  vale  of  Merrimack 
No  chains  are  on  his  tongue ! 

Better  to  breathe  its  cold,  keen  air, 

Than  wear  the    Southron's    shackle 
there. 

Ay,  let  them  hasten  home, 
And  render  up  their  trust; 

Through   them   the    Pilgrim-state    is 

dumb, 
Her  proud  lip  in  the  dust! 

Her  counsels  and  her  gentlest  word 

Of  warning  spurn'd  aside,  unheard ! 

Let  them  come  back,  and  shake 
The  base  dust  from  their  feet ; 

And  with  their  tale  of  outrage  wake 
The  free  hearts  whom  they  meet ; 

And  show  before  indignant  men 

The  scars  where  Slavery's  chain  has 
been. 

Back  from  the  Capitol- 
It  is  no  place  for  thee! 
Beneath   the  arch  of   Heaven's  blue 

wall 

Thy  voice  may  still  be  free! 
What    power    shall    chain    thy    spirit 

there, 
In  God's  free  sun  and  freer  air? 


346 


EARLY  AND  UNCOLLECTED  POEMS. 


A  voice  is  calling  thee, 

From  all  the  martyr-graves 
Of  those  stern  men,  in  death  made 
free, 

Who  could  not  live  as  slaves. 
The  slumberings  of  thy  honor'd  dead 
Are  for  thy  sake  disquieted! 

The  curse  of  Slavery  comes 
Still  nearer,  day  by  day; 

Shall  thy  pure  altars  and  thy  homes 
Become  the  Spoiler's  prey? 

Shall  the  dull  tread  of  fetter'd  slaves 

Sound  o'er  thy  old  and  holy  graves? 

Pride  of  the  old  THIRTEEN! 

That  curse  may  yet  be  stay'd — • 
Stand   thou,   in   Freedom's    strength, 
between 

The  living  and  the  dead ; 
Stand  forth,  for  God  and  Liberty 
In  one  strong  effort  worthy  thee! 

Once  more  let  Faneuil  Hall 
By  freemen's  feet  be  trod, 

And  give  the  echoes  of  its  wall 
Once  more  to  Freedom's  God! 

And  in  the  midst,  unseen,  shall  stand 

The  mighty  fathers  of  thy  land. 

Thy  g°.ther'd  sons  shall  feel 
"  he  soul  of  Adams  near, 

And  Otis  with  his  fiery  zeal, 

And  Warrens'  onward  cheer; 

And    heart   to    heart    shall   thrill    as 
when 

They  moved  and  spake  as  living  men. 

Flinjr.  from  thy  Capitol, 

Thy  banner  to  the  light, 

And,  o'er  thy  Charter's  sacred  scroll, 
For  Freedom  and  the  Right, 

Breathe    once    again    thy    vows,    un 
broken — 

Speak  once  again  as  thou  hast  spoken. 

On  thy  bleak  hills,  speak  out! 

A  WORLD  thy  words  shall  hear ; 
And  they  who  listen  round  about, 

In  friendship,  or  in  fear, 


Shall   know   thee    still,    when    sorest 

tried, 

"Unshaken  and  unterrified!  ": 
1837- 


ADDRESS. 

[Written  for  the  opening  of  "PENNSYLVANIA 
HALL,"  dedicated  to  Free  Discussion,  Virtue, 
Liberty,  and  Independence,  on  the  15th  of  the 
5th  month,  1838.] 

NOT  with  the  splendors  of  the  days 

of  old, 
The  spoil  of  nations,  and  "barbaric 

gold  "— 
No  weapons  wrested  from  the  fields 

of  blood, 
Where  dark  and  stern  the  unyielding 

Roman  stood, 
And  the  proud  eagles  of  his  cohorts 

saw 
A  world,   war-wasted,   crouching   to 

his  law — 

Nor  blazoned  car— nor  banners  float 
ing  gay, 
Like   those    which    swept    along    the 

Appian  way, 
When,   to   the   welcome   of   imperial 

Rome, 
The  victor  warrior  came  in  triumph 

home, 
And  trumpet-peal,  and  shoutings  wild 

and  high, 
Stirred  the  blue  quiet  of  the  Italian 

sky; 
But  calm  and  grateful,  prayerful  and 

sincere, 
As  Christian  freemen,  only,  gathering 

here, 

We  dedicate  our  fair  and  lofty  Hall, 
Pillar  and  arch,  entablature  and  wall, 
As  Virtue's  shrine— as  Liberty's 

abode — 
Sacred  to  Freedom,  and  to  Freedom's 

God! 

1  "Massachusetts  has  held  her  way  right 
onward,  unshaken,  unreduced,  unterrified.' 
—Speech  of  C.  rushing  in  the  House  of  Repre 
sentatives  of  the  United  States,  1836. 


ADDRESS. 


S47 


Oh !  loftier  halls,  'neath  brighter  skies 

than  these, 
Stood  darkly  mirrored  in  the  ^Egean 

seas, 

Pillar  and  shrine — and  lifelike  stat 
ues  seen, 
Graceful  and  pure,  the  marble  shafts 

between, 
Where    glorious    Athens    from    her 

rocky  hill 
Saw  Art  and  Beauty  subject  to  her 

will — 
And  the  chaste  temple,  and  the  classic 

grove — 
The  hall  of  sages — and  the  bowers  of 

love, 
Arch,  fane,  and  column,  graced  the 

shores,  and  gave 
Their  shadows  to  the  blue   Saronic 

wave; 
And  statlier  rose,  on  Tiber's  winding 

side, 
The  Pantheon's  dome — the  Coliseum's 

pride — 
The  Capitol,  whose  arches  backward 

flung 

The  deep,  clear  cadence  of  the  Ro 
man  tongue, 
Whence  stern  decrees,  like  words  of 

fate,  went  forth 
To  the  awed  nations  of  a  conquered 

earth, 
Where   the   proud    Csesars    in    their 

glory  came, 
And  Brutus  lightened  from  his  lips 

of  flame! 


Yet  in  the  porches  of  Athena's  hails, 

And  in  the  shadows  of  her  stately 
walls, 

Lurked  the  sad  bondman,  and  his 
tears  of  woe 

Wet  the  cold  marble  with  unheeded 
flow; 

And  fetters  clanked  beneath  the  sil 
ver  dome 

Of  the  proud  Pantheon  of  imperious 
Rome. 

Oh!  not  for  him — the  chained  and 
stricken  slave — 


By  Tiber's   shore,   or  blue  ^Egina's 

wave, 
In  the  thronged  forum,  or  the  sages' 

seat, 
The  bold  lip  pleaded,  and  the  warm 

heart  beat; 

No  soul  of  sorrow  melted  at  his  pain, 
No  tear  of  pity  rusted  on  his  chain! 


But  this  fair  Hall,  to  Truth  and  Free 
dom  given, 

Pledged  to  the  Right  before  all  Earth 
and  Heaven, 

A  free  arena  for  the  strife  of  mind, 

To  caste,  or  sect,  or  color  uncon- 
fined, 

Shall  thrill  with  echoes,  such  as  ne'er 
of  old 

From  Roman  hall,  or  Grecian  temple 
rolled; 

Thoughts  shall  find  utterance,  such 
as  never  yet 

The  Propylaea  or  the  Forum  met. 

Beneath  its  roof  no  gladiator's  strife 

Shall  win  applauses  with  the  waste  of 
life; 

No  lordly  lictor  urge  the  barbarous 
game — 

No  wanton  Lais  glory  in  her  shame. 

But  here  the  tear  of  sympathy  shall 
flow, 

As  the  ear  listens  to  the  tale  of  woe; 

Here,  in  stern  judgment  of  the  op 
pressor's  wrong — 

Shall  strong  rebukings  thrill  on  Free 
dom's  tongue — 

No  partial  justice  hold  the  unequal 
scale — 

No  pride  of  caste  a  brother's  rights 
assail — 

No  tyrant's  mandates  echo  from  this 
wall, 

Holy  to  Freedom  and  the  Rights  of 
All! 

But  a  fair  field,  where  mind  may  close 
with  mind, 

Free  as  the  sunshine  and  the  chain- 
less  wind; 

Where  the  high  trust  is  fixed  on 
Truth  alone, 


348 


EARLY  AND  UNCOLLECTED  POEMS. 


And  bonds  and  fetters  from  the  soul 

are  thrown; 
Where  wealth,  and  rank,  and  worldly 

pomp,  and  might, 
Yield  to  the  presence  of  the  True  and 

Right. 


And  fitting  is  it  that  this  Hall  should 

stand 
Where   Pennsylvania's    Founder  led 

his  band, 
From  thy  blue  waters,   Delaware! — 

to  press 

The  virgin  verdure  of  the  wilderness. 
Here,  where  all  Europe  with  amaze 
ment  saw 
The  soul's  high  freedom  trammelled 

by  no  law; 
Here,  where  the  fierce  and  warlike 

forest-men 
Gathered  in  peace,  around  the  home 

of  PENN, 
Awed   by   the    weapons    Love   alone 

had  given, 
Drawn    from    the     holy    armory   of 

Heaven ; 
Where    Nature's    voice    against    the 

bondman's  wrong 
First  found  an  earnest  and  indignant 

tongue ; 
Where   LAY'S    bold   message   to    the 

proud  was  borne, 
And  KEITH'S  rebuke,  and  FRANKLIN'S 

manly  scorn — 

Fitting  it  is  that  here,  where  Free 
dom  first 
From  her  fair  feet  shook  off  the  Old 

World's  dust, 
Spread   her    white    pinions    to     our 

Western  blast, 
And  her  free  tresses  to  our  sunshine 

cast, 
One  Hall  should  rise  redeemed  from 

Slavery's  ban — 
One  Temple  sacred  to  the  Rights  of 

Man! 


Oh!  if  the  spirits  of  the  parted  come, 
Visiting  angels,  to  their  olden  home; 


If  the  dead  fathers  of  the  land  look 

forth 
From    their    far    dwellings,    to    the 

things  of  earth — 
Is  it  a  dream,  that  with  their  eyes  of 

love, 
They  gaze    now    on    us    from    the 

bowers  above? 
LAY'S  ardent  soul — and  BENEZET  the 

mild, 
Steadfast    in   faith,   yet   gentle   as   a 

child— 
Meek-hearted    WOOLMAN, — and    that 

brother-band, 
The     sorrowing    exiles    from    their 

"  FATHERLAND/' 
Leaving  their  homes  in  Krieshiem's 

bowers  of  vine, 
And  the  blue  beauty  of  their  glorious 

Rhine, 
To  seek  amidst  our  solemn  depths  of 

wood 
Freedom  from  man  and  holy  peace 

with  God; 

Who  first  of  all  their  testimonial  gave 
Against  the  oppressor, — for  the  out 
cast  slave, — • 
Is  it  a  dream  that  such  as  these  look 

down, 
And  with  their  blessing  our  rejoicings 

crown  ? 


Let  us  rejoice,  that,  while  the  pul 
pit's  door 
Is  barred  against  the  pleaders  for  the 

poor ; 
While    the    church,    wrangling   upon 

points  of  faith, 
Forgets  her  bondmen  suffering  unto 

death ; 
While  crafty  traffic  and  the  lust  of 

gain 
Unite    to    forge    oppression's     triple 

chain, 
One  door  is  open,  and  one  Temple 

free — 

As  a  resting  place  for  hunted  Liberty! 
Where  men   may   speak,   unshackled 

and  unawed, 
High   words   of   truth,   for   freedom 

and  for  God. 


THE  RESPONSE. 


340 


And  when  that  truth  its  perfect  work 

hath  done, 
And  rich  with  blessings  o'er  our  land 

hath  gone; 
When  not  a  slave  beneath  his  yoke 

shall  pine, 
From  broad  Potomac  to  the  far  Sa- 

bine; 

When  unto  angel-lips  at  last  is  given 
The     silver     trump     of     Jubilee    to 

Heaven; 

And    from    Virginia's    plains — Ken 
tucky's  shades, 

And  through  the  dim  Floridian  ever 
glades, 
Rises,   to   meet   that   angel-trumpet's 

sound, 
The   voice   of    millions     from    their 

chains  unbound — 
Then,  though  this  Hall  be  crumbling 

in  decay, 
Its    strong   walls   blending   with   the 

common  clay, 
Yet,  round  the  ruins  of  its  strength 

shall  stand 
The  best  and  noblest  of  a  ransomed 

land — 
Pilgrims,     like    those     who     throng 

around  the  shrine 
Of  Mecca,  or  of  holy  Palestine! — • 
A  prouder  glory  shall  that  ruin  own 
Than   that   which   lingers   round   the 

Parthenon. 

Here  shall  the  child  of  after  years  be 

taught 
The    work   of    Freedom     which     his 

fathers   wrought — 

Told  of  the  trials  of  the  present  hour, 
Our  weary  strife  with  prejudice  and 

power, — 
How     the     high     errand     quickened 

woman's  soul, 
And  touched  her  lip  as  with  a  living 

coal — 
How    Freedom's   martyrs   kept   their 

lofty  faith, 
True  and  unwavering,  unto  bonds  and 

death.— 
The   pencil's    art    shall    sketch     the 

ruined  Hall, 


The  Muses'  garland  crown  its  aged 

wall, 
And  History's    pen    for    after  times 

record 

Its  consecration  unto  FREEDOM'S  GOD! 
1838. 


THE  RESPONSE. 

["To  agitate  the  question  (Slavery)  anew, 
is  not  only  impolitic,  but  it  is  a  virtual  breach 
of  good  faith  to  our  brethren  of  the  South;  an 
unwarrantable  interference  with  their  do 
mestic  relations  and  institutions."  "I  can 
never,  in  the  official  station  which  I  occupy, 
consent  to  countenance  a  course  which  may 
jeopard  the  peace  and  harmony  of  the  Union." 
— Governor  Porter's  Inaugural  Message,  1838.] 

No  "countenance'*  of  his,  forsooth! 

Who  asked  it  at  his  vassal  hands? 

Who    looked    for   homage    done    to 

Truth, 

By  party's  vile  and  hateful  bands? 
Who  dreamed  that  one  by  them  pos 
sessed, 
Would  lay  for  her  his  spear  in  rest? 

His  "  countenance  "  !  well,  let  it  light 

The  human  robber  to  his  spoil! — 

Let  those  who  track  the  bondman's 

flight, 
Like    bloodhounds    o'er    our    once 

free  soil, 

Bask  in  its  sunshine  while  they  may, 
And  howl  its  praises  on  their  way; 

We  ask  no    boon :    our    rights    we 

claim — 
Free  press  and  thought — free  tongue 

and  pen — 
The    right    to    speak    in    Freedom's 

name, 

As  Pennsylvanians  and  as  men; 
To  do,  by  Lynch  law  unforbid, 
What  our  own  Rush  and  Franklin 

did. 


Ay,  there  we  stand,  with  planted  feet, 
Steadfast,  where  those  old  worthies 
stood : — 


350 


EARLY  AND  UNCOLLECTED  POEMS. 


Upon  us  let  the  tempest  beat, 

Around  us   swell    and    surge    the 

flood: 

We  fail  or  triumph  on  that  spot; 
God  helping  us,  we  falter  not. 

"A  breach  of  plighted  faith?"     For 

shame! — 
Who    voted    for    that    "  breach "  ? 

Who  gave 

In  the  state  councils,  vote  and  name 
For  freedom  for  the  District  slave? 
Consistent  patriot!    go,   forswear, 
Blot     out,     "  expunge "     the     record 
there!1 


Go,  eat  thy  words.  Shall  H C 

Turn  round — a  moral  harlequin? 

And  arch  V B wipe  away 

The  stains  of  his  Missouri  sin? 

And  shall  that  one  unlucky  vote 

Stick,  burr-like,  in  thy  honest  throat? 


No — do  thy  part  in  "putting  down"2 
The  friends  of  Freedom : — summon 
out 

The  parson  in  his  saintly  gown, 
To  curse  the  outlawed  roundabout, 

In  concert  with  the  Belial  brood — 

The  Balaam  of  "the  brotherhood"! 


Quench  every  free  discussion  light — 
Clap  on  the  legislative  snuffers, 

And  caulk  with  "  resolutions  "  tight 
The  ghastly  rents  the  Union  suf 
fers! 

Let  church  and  state  brand  Abolition 

As  heresy  and  rank  sedition. 

Choke  down,  at  once,  each  breathing 
thing, 


1  It  ought  to  be  borne  in  mind  that  DAVID 
R.  PORTER  voted  in   the   Legislature  to  in 
struct  the  congressi9nal  delegation  of  Penn 
sylvania  to  use  their  influence  for  the  abolition 
of  slavery  in  the  District  of  Columbia. 

2  "He  [Martin  Van  Buren]  thinks  the  abo 
litionists  may  be  put  down."— Richmond (Va.~) 
Enquirer. 


That    whispers    of    the    Rights    of 

Man: — 
Gag  the  free  girl  who  dares  to  sing 

Of  freedom  o'er  her  dairy  pan : — 
Dog  the  old  farmer's  steps  about, 
And  hunt  his  cherished  treason  out. 


Go,  hunt  sedition. — Search  for  that 
In  every  pedler's  cart  of  rags; 

Pry  into  every  Quaker's  hat, 
And  DOCTOR  FUSSELI/S  saddle  bags! 

Lest  treason  wrap,  with  all  its  ills, 

Around  his  powders  and  his  pills. 


Where    Chester's    oak    and    walnut 

shades 

With   slavery-laden  breezes   stir, 
And  on  the  hills,  and  in  the  glades 
Of  Bucks  and  honest  Lancaster, 
Are   heads    which   think   and   hearts 

which  feel — 
Flints  to  the  Abolition  steel! 


Ho!  send  ye  down  a  corporal's  guard 
With    flow   of   flag    and    beat    of 

drum — 

Storm  LINDLEY  COATES'S  poultry  yard, 
Beleaguer      THOMAS      WHITSON'S 

home! 

Beat  up  the  Quaker  quarters— show 
Your  valor  to  an  unarmed  foe! 


Do    more.      Fill   up   your   loathsome 

jails 

With  faithful  men  and  women — set 
The  scaffold  up  in  these  green  vales, 
And  let  their  verdant  turf  be  wet 
With  blood  of  unresisting  men — 
Ay,    do    all    this,    and    more, — WHAT 
THEN? 


Think  ye,  one  heart  of  man  and  child 

Will  falter  from  his  lofty  faith, 
At    the    mob's     tumult,     fierce     and 

wild — 

The     prison     cell — the      shameful 
death? 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES. 


351 


No! — nursed  in  storm  and  trial  long, 
The  weakest  of  our  band  is  strong! 

Oh!  while  before  us  visions  come 

Of  slave  ships  on  Virginia's  coast — 
Of  mothers  in  their  childless  home, 
Like    Rachel,    sorrowing    o'er    the 

lost— 
The    slave-gang    scourged    upon     its 

way — 

The     bloodhound     and     his     human 
prey— 

We  cannot  falter!     Did  we  so, 
The  stones  beneath  would  murmur 

out, 

And  all  the  winds  that  round  us  blow 
Would  whisper  of  our  shame  about. 
No!  let  the  tempest  rock  the  land, 
Our  faith  shall  live — our  truth  shall 
stand. 

True  as  the  Vaudois  hemmed  around 
With  Papal  fire  and  Roman  steel- 
Firm  as  the  Christian  heroine  bound 
Upon   Domitian's   torturing   wheel, 
We    'bate    no    breath — we     curb     no 

thought — 

Come    what    may   come,    WE   FALTER 
NOT! 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES. 
1844- 

[Written  on  reading-  the  sentence  of  JOHN 
L.  BROWN,  of  South  Carolina,  to  be  executed 
on  the  25th  of  4th  month,  1844,  for  the  crime 
of  assisting  a  female  slave  to  escape  from 
bondage.  The  sentence  was  afterwards  com 
muted.] 

Ho!  thou  who  seekest  late  and  long 

A  license  from  the  Holy  Book 
For  brutal  lust  and  hell's  red  wrong, 

Man  of  the  pulpit,  look! — 
Lift  up  those  cold  and  atheist  eyes, 

This  ripe  fruit  of  thy  teaching  see; 
And  tell  us  how  to  Heaven  will  rise 
The  incense  of  this  sacrifice — 

This     blossom     of     the     Gallows 
Tree!— 


Search   out    for    SLAVERY'S   hour   of 
need 

Some  fitting  text  of  sacred  writ  j1 
Give  Heaven  the  credit  of  a  deed 

Which  shames  the  nether  pit. 
Kneel,  smooth  blasphemer,  unto  Him 

Whose  truth  is  on  thy  lips  a  lie. 
Ask  that  His  bright-winged  cherubim 
May  bend  around  that  scaffold  grim 

To  guard  and  bless  and  sanctify! — 

Ho!  champion  of  the  people's  cause — 

Suspend  thy  loud  and  vain  rebuke 

Of    foreign   wrong   and    Old   World 

laws, 

Man  of  the  Senate,  look! — 

Was  this  the  promise  of  the  free, — 

The  great  hope  of  our  early  time, — 

That  Slavery's  poison  vine  should  be 

Upborne  by  Freedom's  prayer-nursed 

tree, 

O'er  clustered  with  such  fruits  of 
crime? — 


Send  out  the    summons,    East    and 

West, 
And   South  arid   North,  let  all  be 

there, 
Where  he  who  pitied  the  oppressed 

Swings  out  in  sun  and  air. 
Let  not  a  democratic  hand 

The  grisly  hangman's  task  refuse; 
There  let  each  loyal  patriot  stand 
Awaiting    Slavery's    command 
To   twist  the   rope   and   draw  the 
noose! 

But  vain  is  irony — unmeet 
Its   cold   rebuke   for    deeds   which 

start 

In  fiery  and  indignant  beat 
The  pulses  of  the  heart. 
Leave    studied     wit,     and     guarded 

phrase ; 
And  all  that  kindled  heart  can  feel 

1  Three  new  publications,  from  the  pens  oi 
Dr.  Junkin,  President  of  Miami  College.  Alex 
ander  McCaine  of  the  Methodist  Protestant 
church,  and  of  a  clergyman  of  the  Cincinnati 
Synod,  defending  Slavery  on  Scriptural  ground, 
have  recently  made  their  appearance. 


852 


EARLY  AND  UNCOLLECTED  POEMS. 


Speak   out   in    earnest   words   which 

raise, 
Where'er  they  fall,  an  answering 

blaze, 
Like  flints  which  strike  the  fire 

from  steel. 

Still  let  a  mousing  priesthood  ply 

Their  garbled  text  and  gloss  of  sin, 
And  make  the  lettered  scroll  deny 

Its  living  soul  within ; 
Still  let  the  place-fed  titled  knave 

Plead    Robbery's    right    with    pur 
chased  lips, 

And  tell  us  that  our  fathers  gave 
For  Freedom's  pedestal,  a  slave, 

For    frieze    and    moulding,    chains 
and  whips! — 

But  ye  who  own  that  higher  law 

Whose  tables  in  the  heart  are  set, 
Speak  out  in  words  of  power  and  awe 

That  God  is  living  yet! 
Breathe  forth  once  more  those  tones 
sublime 

Which  thrilled  the  burdened  proph 
et's  lyre, 

And  in  a  dark  and  evil  time 
Smote  down  on  Israel's  fast  of  crime 

And  gift  of  blood,  a  rain  of  fire! 

Oh,  not  for  us  the  graceful  lay, 
To    whose    soft    measures     lightly 

move 
The  Dryad  and  the  woodland  Fay, 

O'erlooked  by  Mirth  and  Love; 
But  such  a  stern  and  startling  strain 
As    Britain's    hunted     bards     flung 

down 
From  Snowden,  to  the  conquered 

plain, 

Where  harshly    clanked    the    Saxon 
chain 


On    trampled    field     an  1     cmeking 
town. 

By  Liberty's  dishonored  name, 
By    man's    lost    hope,    and    failing 

trust, 
By  words  and  deeds,  which  bow  with 

shame 

Our  foreheads  to  the  dust, — 
By  the  exulting  tyrant's  sneer, 
Borne  to  us  from  the  Old  World's 

thrones, 

And  by  their  grief,  who  pining  hear, 
In  sunless  mines  and  dungeons  drear, 
How  Freedom's  land  her  faith  dis 
owns  ; — 

Speak  out  in  acts;  the  time  for  words 
Has  passed,  and  deeds  alone  suf 
fice; 
In  the  loud  clang  of  meeting  swords 

The  softer  music  dies! 
Act — act,    in    God's    name,    while   ye 

may, 
Smite  from  the  church  her  leprous 

limb, 

Throw  open  to  the  light  of  day 
The  bondman's  cell,  and  break  away 
The  chains  the  state  has  bound  on 
him. 

Ho!  every  true  and  living  soul, 

To  Freedom's  perilled  altar  bear 
The   freeman's    and    the    Christian's 

whole, 

Tongue,  pen,  and  vote,  and  prayer! 

One  last  great  battle  for  the  Right,— 

One    short,    sharp    struggle    to    be 

f  reel- 
To  do  is  to  succeed — our  fight 
Is     waged     in     Heaven's     approving 

sight — 

The  smile  of  God  is  Victory! 
1844, 


IN  WAR  TIME. 


353 


IN  WAR  TIME. 

INSCRIBED  TO   W.  B. 

As  they  who  watch  by  sick-beds  find 

relief 
Unwittingly  from  the  great  stress  of 

grief 

And  anxious  care,  in  fantasies  out- 
wrought 
From  the  hearth's  embers  flickering 

low,  or  caught 
From  whispering  wind,  or  tread  of 

passing  feet, 
Or  vagrant  memory  calling  up  some 

sweet 
Snatch   of    old    song    or     romance. 

whence  or  why 
They  scarcely  know  or  ask, — so,  thou 

and  I, 
Nursed  in  the  faith  that  Truth  alone 

is  strong 
In   the   endurance   which   outwearies 

Wrong, 
With  meek  persistence  baffling  brutal 

force, 

And   trusting    God   against  the  uni 
verse, — 
We,  doomed  to  watch  a  strife  we  may 

not  share 
With  other  weapons  than  the  patriot's 

prayer, 
Yet    owning,    with    full    hearts    and 

moistened  eyes, 

The  awful  beauty  of  self-sacrifice, 
And  wrung  by  keenest  sympathy  for 

all 
Who   give  their  loved  ones  for  the 

living  wall 
'Twixt  law  and  treason, — in  this  evil 

day 
May  haply  find,   through   automatic 

play 
Of   pen   and   pencil,    solace   to    our 

pain, 
And  hearten  others  with  the  strength 

we  gain. 

I  know  it  has  been  said  our  times  re 
quire 


No  play  of  art,  nor  dalliance  with  the 

lyre, 

No  weak  essay  with  Fancy's  chloro 
form 
To  calm  the  hot,  mad  pulses  of  the 

storm, 
But  the  stern  war-blast  rather,  such 

as  sets 

The  battle's  teeth  of  serried  bayonets, 
And  pictures  grim  as  Vernet's.     Yet 

with  these 
Some    softer    tints   may   blend,   and 

milder  keys 
Relieve  the  storm-stunned  ear.     Let 

us  keep  sweet, 
If  so  we  may,  our  hearts,  even  while 

we  eat 

The  bitter  harvest  of  our  own  device 
And  half  a  century's  moral  coward 
ice. 
As  Niirnberg  sang  while  Wittenberg 

defied, 
And  Kranach  painted  by  his  Luther's 

side, 
And  through  th"  war-march  of  the 

Puritan 
The  silver  stream  of  Marvell's  music 

ran, 
So   let   the   household   melodies    be 

sung, 
The  pleasant  pictures  on  the  wall  be 

hung,— 
So  let  us  hold  against  the  hosts  of 

night 
And  slavery  all  our  vantage-ground 

of  light. 
Let  Treason  boast  its  savagery,  and 

shake 

From  its  flag-folds  its  symbol  rattle 
snake, 
Nurse  its  fine  arts,  lay  human  skins 

in  tan, 
And  carve   its  pipe-bowls   from   the 

bones  of  man, 
And  make  the  tale  of  Fijian  banquets 

dull 
By   drinking  whiskey   from   a   loyal 

skull,— 
But  let  us  guard,  till  this  sad  war 

shall  cease, 


354 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


(God  grant  it  soon!)  the  graceful 
arts  of  peace: 

No  foes  are  conquered  who  the  vic 
tors  teach 

Their  vandal  manners  and  barbaric 
speech. 

And  while,  with  hearts  of  thankful 
ness,  we  bear 

Of  the  great  common  burden  our  full 
share, 

Let  none  upbraid  us  that  the  waves 
entice 

Thy  sea-dipped  pencil,  or  some  quaint 
device, 

Rhythmic  and  sweet,  beguiles  my  pen 
away 

From  the  sharp  strifes  and  sorrows 
of  to-day. 

Thus,  while  the  east-wind  keen  from 
Labrador 

Sings  in  the  leafless  elms,  and  from 
the  shore 

Of  the  great  sea  comes  the  monoto 
nous  roar 

Of  the  long-breaking  surf,  and  all  the 
sky 

Is  gray  with  cloud,  home-bound  and 
dull,  I  try 

To  time  a  simple  legend  to  the  sounds 

Of  winds  in  the  woods,  and  waves  on 
pebbled  bounds, — 

A  song  for  oars  to  chime  with,  such 
as  might 

Be  sung  by  tired  sea-painters,  who  at 
night 

Look  from  their  hemlock  camps,  by 
quiet  cove 

Or  beach,  moon-lighted,  on  the  waves 
they  love. 

(So  hast  thou  looked,  when  level 
sunset  lay 

On  the  calm  bosom  of  some  Eastern 
bay, 

And  all  the  spray-moist  rocks  and 
waves  that  rolled 

Up  the  white  sand-slopes  flashed  with 
ruddy  gold.) 

Something  it  has — a  flavor  of  the  sea, 

And  the  sea's  freedom — which  re 
minds  of  thee. 


Its  faded  picture,  dimly  smiling 
down 

From  the  blurred  fresco  of  the  an 
cient  town, 

I  have  not  touched  with  warmer  tints 
in  vain, 

If,  in  this  dark,  sad  year,  it  steals  one 
thought  from  pain. 


AMY  WENTWORTH. 

HER  fingers  shame  the  ivory  keys 
They  dance  so  light  along; 

The  bloom  upon  her  parted  lips 
Is  sweeter  than  the  song. 

O  perfumed  suitor,  spare  thy  smiles! 

Her  thoughts  are  not  of  thee; 
She  better  loves  the  salted  wind, 

The  voices  of  the  sea. 

Her  heart  is  like  an  outbound  ship 
That  at  its  anchor  swings; 

The  murmur  of  the  stranded  shell 
Is  in  the  song  she  sings. 

She   sings,    and,   smiling,   hears    her 

praise, 

But  dreams  the  while  of  one 
Who    watches    from    his    sea-blown 

deck 
The  icebergs  in  the  sun. 

She  questions  all  the  winds  that  blow, 
And  every  fog-wreath   dim, 

And  bids  the  sea-birds  flying  north 
Bear  messages  to  him. 

She  speeds  them  with  the  thanks  of 
men 

He  perilled  life  to  save, 
And  grateful  prayers  like  holy  oil 

To  smooth  for  him  the  wave. 

Brown  Viking  of  the  fishing-smack! 

Fair  toast  of  all  the  town! — 
The  skipper's  jerkin  ill  beseems 

The  lady's  silken  gown! 


THE  COUNTESS. 


355 


But  ne'er  shall  Amy  Wentworth  wear 
For  him  the  blush  of  shame 

Who  dares  to  set  his  manly  gifts 
Against  her  ancient  name. 

The  stream  is  brightest  at  its  spring, 
And  blood  is  not  like  wine; 

Nor  honored  less  than  he  who  heirs 
Is  he  who  founds  a  line. 

Full  lightly  shall  the  prize  be  won, 
If  love  be  Fortune's  spur; 

And  never  maiden  stoops  to  him 
Who  lifts  himself  to  her. 

Her  home  is  brave  in  Jaffrey  Street, 
With  stately  stairways  worn 

By  feet  of  old  Colonial  knights 
And  ladies  gentle-born. 

Still  green  about  its  ample  porch 

The  English  ivy  twines, 
Trained  back  to  show  in  English  oak 

The  herald's  craven  signs. 

And  on  her,  from  the  wainscot  old, 

Ancestral  faces  frown, — 
And   this    has    worn     the    soldier's 
sword, 

And  that  the  judge's  gown. 

But,  strong  of  will  and  proud  as  they, 
She  walks  the  gallery  floor 

As  if  she  trod  her  sailor's  deck 
By  stormy  Labrador! 

The  sweetbrier  blooms  on  Kittery- 
side, 

And  green  are  Elliot's  bowers; 
Her  garden  is  the  pebbled  beach, 

The  mosses  are  her  flowers. 

She  looks  across  the  harbor-bar 
To  see  the  white  gulls  fly; 

His  greeting  from  the  Northern  sea 
Is  in  their  clanging  cry. 

She  hums  a  song,  and  dreams  that  he, 
As  in  its  romance  old, 


Shall  homeward  ride  with  silken  sails 
And  masts  of  beaten  gold! 

Oh,  rank  is  good,  and  gold  is  fair, 
And  high  and  low  mate  ill; 

But  love  has  never  known  a  law 
Beyond  its  own  sweet  will! 


THE  COUNTESS. 

TO  ELI  AS  WELD. 

I  KNOW  not,  Time  and  Space  so  in 
tervene, 

Whether,  still  waiting  with  a  trust  se 
rene, 

Thou  bearest  up  thy  fourscore  years 
and  ten, 

Or,  called  at  last,  art  now  Heaven's 
citizen ; 

But,  here  or  there,  a  pleasant  thought 
of  thee, 

Like  an  old  friend,  all  day  has  been 
with  me. 

The  shy,  still  boy,  for  whom  thy 
kindly  hand 

Smoothed  his  hard  pathway  to  the 
wonderland 

Of  thought  and  fancy,  in  gray  man 
hood  yet 

Keeps  green  the  memory  of  his  early 
debt. 

To-day,  when  truth  and  falsehood 
speak  their  words 

Through  hot-lipped  cannon  and  the 
teeth  of  swords, 

Listening  with  quickened  heart  and 
ear  intent 

To  each  sharp  clause  of  that  stern 
argument, 

I  still  can  hear  at  times  a  softer 
note 

Of  the  old  pastoral  music  round  me 
float, 

While  through  the  hot  gleam  of  our 
civil  strife 

Looms  the  green  mirage  of  a  simpler 
life. 


N',56 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


As,  at  his  alien  post,  the  sentinel 

Drops  the  old  bucket  in  the  home 
stead  well, 

And  hears  old  voices  in  the  winds 
that  toss 

Above  his  head  the  live-oak's  beard 
of  moss, 

So,  in  our  trial-time,  and  under  skies 

Shadowed  by  swords  like  Islam's 
paradise, 

I  wait  and  watch,  and  let  my  fancy 
stray 

To  milder  scenes  and  youth's  Arca 
dian  day; 

And  howsoe'er  the  pencil  dipped  in 
dreams 

Shades  the  brown  woods  or  tints  the 
sunset  streams, 

The  country  doctor  in  the  fore 
ground  seems, 

Whose  ancient  sulky  down  the  village 
lanes 

Dragged,  like  a  war-car,  captive  ills 
and  pains. 

I  could  not  paint  the  scenery  of  my 
song, 

Mindless  of  one  who  looked  thereon 
so  long; 

Who,  night  and  day,  on  duty's  lonely 
round, 

Made  friends  o'  the  woods  and  rocks, 
and  knew  the  sound 

Of  each  small  brook,  and  what  the 
hillside  trees 

Said  to  the  winds  that  touched  their 
leafy  keys; 

Who  saw  so  keenly  and  so  well  could 
paint 

The  village-folk,  with  all  their  hu 
mors  quaint, — 

The  parson  ambling  on  his  wall-eyed 
roan, 

Grave  and  erect,  with  white  hair 
backward  blown; 

The  tough  old  boatman,  half  am 
phibious  grown; 

The  muttering  witch-wife  of  the  gos 
sip's  tale, 

And  the  loud  straggler  levying  his 
blackmail, — 


Old     customs,    habits,    superstitions, 

fears, 

All  that  lies  buried  under  fifty  years. 
To  thee,  as  is  most  fit,  I  bring  my 

lay, 
And,  grateful,  own  the  debt  I  cannot 

pay. 


Over  the  wooded  northern  ridge, 
Between  its  houses  brown, 

To  the  dark  tunnel  of  the  bridge 
The  street  comes  straggling  down. 

You  catch  a  glimpse,  through  birch 
and  pine, 

Of  gable,  roof,  and  porch, 
The  tavern  with  its  swinging  sign, 

The  sharp  horn  of  the  church. 

The  river's  steel-blue  crescent  curves 
To  meet,  in  ebb  and  flow, 

The  single  broken  wharf  that  serves 
For  sloop  and  gundelow. 

With  salt  sea-scents  along  its  shores 
The  heavy  hay-boats  crawl, 

The  long  antennae  of  their  oars 
In  lazy  rise  and  fall. 

Along  the  gray  abutment's  wall 

The  idle  shad-net  dries ; 
The  toll-man  in  his  cobbler's  stall 

Sits  smoking  with  closed  eyes. 

You  hear  the  pier's  low  undertone 
Of  waves  that  chafe  and  gnaw; 

You  start, — a  skipper's  horn  is  blown 
To  raise  the  creaking  draw. 

At  times  a  blacksmith's  anvil  sounds 
With  slow  and  sluggard  beat, 

Or  stage-coach  on  its  dusty  rounds 
Wakes  up  the  staring  street. 

A  place  for  idle  eyes  and  ears, 
A  cobwebbed  nook  of  dreams ; 

Left  by  the  stream  whose  waves  are 

years 
The  stranded  village  seems. 


THE  COUNTESS. 


357 


And  there,  like  other  moss  and  rust, 
The  native  dweller  clings, 

And  keeps,  in  uninquiring  trust, 
The  old,  dull  round  of  things. 

The  fisher  drops  his  patient  lines, 
The  farmer  sows  his  grain, 

Content  to  hear  the  murmuring  pines 
Instead  of  railroad  train. 

Go  where,  along  the  tangled  steep 
That  slopes  against  the  west, 

The  hamlets  buried  idlers  sleep 
In  still  profounder  rest. 

Throw     back    the     locust's    flowery 

plume, 

The  birch's  pale-green  scarf, 
And    break    the   web    of   brier    and 

bloom 
From  name  and  epitaph. 

A  simple  muster-roll  of  death, 
Of  pomp  and  romance  shorn, 

The    dry,    old    names    that    common 

breath 
Has  cheapened  and  outworn. 

Yet  pause  by  one  low  mound,  and 
part 

The  wild  vines  o'er  it  laced, 
And  read  the  words  by  rustic  art 

Upon  its  headstone  traced. 

Haply  yon  white-haired  villager 
Of  fourscore  years  can  say 

What  means  the  noble  name  of  her 
Who  sleeps  with  common  clay. 

An  exile  from  the  Gascon  land 
Found  refuge  here  and  rest, 

And  loved,  of  all  the  village  band, 
Its   fairest  and  its  best. 

He  knelt  with  her  on  Sabbath  morns, 
He  worshipped  through  her  eyes, 

And   on   the   pride   that   doubts   and 

scorns 
Stole  in  her  faith's  surprise. 


Her  simple  daily  life  he  saw 
By  homeliest  duties  tried, 

In  all  things  by  an  untaught  law 
Of  fitness  justified. 

For  her  his  rank  aside  he  laid; 

He  took  the  hue  and  tone 
Of  lowly  life  and  toil,  and  made 

Her  simple  ways  his  own. 

Yet  still,  in  gay  and  careless  ease, 

To  harvest-field  or  dance 
He  brought  the  gentle  courtesies, 

The  nameless  grace  of  France. 

And  she  who  taught  him  love  not  less 
From  him  she  loved  in  turn 

Caught  in  her  sweet  unconsciousness 
What  love  is  quick  to  learn. 

Each  grew  to  each  in  pleased  accord, 
Nor  knew  the  gazing  town 

If  she  looked  upward  to  her  lord 
Or  he  to  her  looked  down. 

How  sweet,  wrhen  summer's  day  was 

o'er, 

His  violin's  mirth  and  wail, 
The    walk    on    pleasant     Newbury's 

shore, 
The  river's  moonlit  sail! 

Ah !  life  is  brief,  though  love  be  long ; 

The  altar  and  the  bier, 
The  burial  hymn  and  bridal  song, 

Were  both  in  one  short  year! 

Her  rest  is  quiet  on  the  hill, 
Beneath  the  locust's  bloom ; 

Far  off  her  lover  sleeps  as  still 
Within  his  scutcheoned  tomb. 

The  Gascon  lord,  the  village  maid, 
In  death  still  clasp  their  hands; 

The  love  that  levels  rank  and  grade 
Unites  their  severed  lands. 

What  matter  whose  the  hillside  grave, 
Or  whose  the  blazoned  stone? 

Forever  to  her  western  wave 
Shall  whisper  blue  Garonne! 


358 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


O  Love! — so  hallowing  every  soil 
That  gives  thy  sweet  flower  room, 

Wherever,  nursed  by  ease  or  toil, 
The  human  heart  takes  bloom!— 

Plant  of  lost  Eden,  from  the  sod 

Of  sinful  earth  unriven, 
White  blossom  of  the  trees  of  God 

Dropped      down      to      us      from 
heaven ! — 

This   tangled  waste  of  mound    and 
stone 

Is  holy  for  thy  sake; 
A  sweetness  which  is  all  thy  own 

Breathes  out  from  fern  and  brake. 

And  while  ancestral  pride  shall  twine 
The  Gascon's  tomb  with  flowers, 

Fall  sweetly  here,  O  song  of  mine, 
With   summer's   bloom  and  show 
ers! 

And  let  the  lines  that  severed  seem 

Unite  again  in  thee, 
As  western  wave  and  Gallic  stream 

Are  mingled  in  one  sea! 


THE  WRECK  OF  RIVERMOUTH. 

RIVERMOUTH  Rocks  are  fair  to  see, 
By  dawn  or  sunset  shone  across, 
When   the   ebb   of   the    sea    has    left 

them  free 
To  dry  their  fringes  of  gold-green 

moss: 
For  there  the  river  comes   winding 

down, 
From  salt  sea-meadows  and  uplands 

brown, 

And  waves  on  the  outer  rocks  afoam 
Shout     to     its     waters,     "  Welcome 

home ! " 

And  fair  are  the  sunny  isles  in  view 
East    of    the    grisly    Head   of    the 
Boar, 


And  Agamenticus  lifts  its  blue 

Disk  of  a  cloud  the  woodlands  o'er ; 
And  southerly,  when  the  tide  is  down, 
Twixt  white  sea-waves  and  sand-hills 

brown, 
The  beach-birds  dance  and  the  gray 

gulls  wheel 
Over  a  floor  of  burnished  steel. 

Once,  in  the  old  Colonial  days, 

Two  hundred  years  ago  and  more, 
A  boat  sailed  down  through  the  wind 
ing  ways 
Of  Hampton   River    to    that    low 

shore, 

Full  of  a  goodly  company 
Sailing  out  on  the  summer  sea, 
Veering    to     catch    the    land-breeze 

light, 

With  the  Boar  to  left  and  the  Rocks 
to  right. 

In  Hampton  meadows,  where  mowers 

laid 
Their    scythes    to    the    swaths    of 

salted  grass, 
"Ah,   well-a-day!   our   hay  must   be 

made !  " 
A  young  man    sighed,    who     saw 

them  pass. 
Loud  laughed  his  fellows  to  see  him 

stand 
Whetting   his    scythe    with   a   listless 

hand, 

Hearing  a  voice  in  a  far-off  song, 
Watching    a    white    hand    beckoning 

long. 

"  Fie  on  the  witch !  "  cried  a  merry 

girl, 
As  they  rounded  the  point  where 

Goody  Cole 
Sat  'by    her    door    with     her     wheel 

atwirl, 
A    bent    and   blear-eyed    poor    old 

soul. 
"Oho!"  she  muttered,  "  ye  're  brave 

to-day! 
But  I  hear  the  little  waves  laugh  and 

say, 


THE  WRECK  OF  RIVERMOUTH. 


359 


'  The  broth  will  be  cold  that  waits  at 

home; 
For  it's  one  to  go,  but  another  to 

come!  " 

"  She 's   cursed,"    said    the    skipper ; 

"  speak  her  fair : 

I'm  scary  always,  to  see  her  shake 
Her  wicked  head,  with  its  wild  gray 

hair, 
And  nose  like  a  hawk,  and  eyes  like 

a  snake." 
But    merrily    still,    with    laugh     and 

shout, 
From  Hampton  River  the  boat  sailed 

out, 
Till  the  huts  and  the  flakes  on  Star 

seemed  nigh, 
And  they  lost  the  scent  of  the  pines 

of  Rye. 

They  dropped  their  lines  in  the  lazy 
tide, 

Drawing  up   haddock  and  mottled 
cod ; 

They  saw  not  the  Shadow  that  walked 

beside, 

They   heard  not  the  feet   with   si 
lence  shod. 

But  thicker  and   thicker  a   hot  mist 
grew, 

Shot  by   the  lightnings  through  and 
through ; 

And  muffled  growls,  like  the  growl 
of  a  beast, 

Ran  along  the  sky  from  west  to  east. 

Then    the    skipper    looked    from    the 

darkening  sea 
Up  to  the  dimmed  and  wading  sun ; 

But  he  spake  like  a  brave  man  cheer 
ily, 

"  Yet  there  is  time  for  our  home 
ward  run." 

Veering  and  tacking,  they  backward 
wore; 

And  just  as  a  breath  from  the  woods 
ashore 

Blew  out  to  whisper  of  danger  past, 

The  wrath  of  the  storm  came  down 
at  last! 


The  skipper  hauled  at  the  heavy  sail: 

"  God  be  our  help!  "  h«  only  cried, 

As  the  fearing  gale,  like  the  stroke  of 

a  flail, 
Smote   the   boat  on   its   starboard 

side. 

The  Shoalsmen  looked,  but  saw  alone 
Dark    films    of    rain-cloud    slantwise 

blown, 
Wild  rocks  lit  up  by  the  lightning's 

glare, 
The  strife  and  torment  of  sea  and  air. 

Goody   Cole   looked    out    from    her 

door : 
The  Isles  of  Shoals  were  drowned 

and  gone, 
Scarcely   she    saw    the    Head   of   the 

Boar 

Toss  the  foam  from  tusks  of  stone. 
She  clasped  her  hands  with  a  grip  of 

pain, 
The  tear  on  her  cheek  was   not  of 

rain : 
"  They  are  lost,"  she  muttered,  "  boat 

and  crew! 
Lord,   forgive  me!    my  words   were 

true!  " 

Suddenly  seaward  swept  the  squall ; 
The  low  sun  smote  through  cloudy 

rack; 
The  Shoals  stood  clear  in  the  light, 

and  all 
The  trend  of  the  coast  lay  hard  and 

black. 

But  far  and  wide  as  eye  could  reach, 
No    life   was     seen    upon    wave    or 

beach ; 
The  boat  that  went  out  at  morning 

never 
Sailed    back    again     into     Hampton 

River. 

O  mower,  lean  on  thy  bended  snath, 
Look  from  the  meadows  green  and 

low: 
The   wind  of  the   sea   is   a  waft  of 

death, 

The  waves  are   singing  a  song  of 
woe! 


360 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


By  silent  river,  by  moaning  sea, 
Long  and  vain  shall  thy  watching  be : 
Never    again    shall   the   sweet   voice 

call, 
Never  the  white  hand  rise  and  fall! 

O  Rivermouth  Rocks,  how  sad  a  sight 
Ye  saw  in  the  light  of  breaking 
day! 

Dead  faces  looking  up  cold  and  white 
From  sand  and  seaweed  where  they 
lay. 

The  mad  old  witch-wife  wailed  and 
wept, 

And  cursed  the  tide  as  it  backward 
crept : 

"  Crawl  back,  crawl  back,  blue  water- 
snake! 

Leave  your  dead  for  the  hearts  that 
break!" 

Solemn  it  was  in  that  old  day 
In  Hampton  town  and  its  log-built 

church, 

Where  side  by  side  the  coffins  lay 
And  the  mourners   stood   in  aisle 

and  porch. 
In  the  singing-seats  young  eyes  wore 

dim, 
The  voices   faltered  that  raised  the 

hymn, 

And  Father  Dalton,  grave  and  stern, 
Sobbed  through  his  prayer  and  wept 

in  turn. 

But  his  ancient    colleague    did    not 

pray; 

Under  the  weight  of  his  fourscore 
years 

He  stood  apart  with  the  iron-gray 
Of  his  strong  brows  knitted  to  hide 
his  tears ; 

And  a  fair-faced  woman  of  doubtful 
fame, 

Linking  her  own  with  his  honored 
name, 

Subtle  as  sin,  at  his  side  withstood 

The  felt  reproach  of  her  neighbor 
hood. 

Apart  with  them,  like  them  forbid, 
Old    Goody    Cole    looked    drearily 
round, 


As,  two  by  two,  with  their  faces  hid, 
The  mourners  walked  to  the  bury- 
ing-ground. 

She  let  the  staff  from  her  clasped 
hands  fall: 

"Lord,  forgive  us!  we're  sinners 
all!" 

And  the  voice  of  the  old  man  an 
swered  her : 

"Amen!"  said  Father  Bachiler. 

So,  as  I  sat  upon  Appledore 
In  the  calm  of  a  closing  summer 

day, 
And   the   broken   lines   of   Hampton 

shore 

In  purple  mist  of  cloudland  lay, 
The   Rivermouth   Rocks    their   story 

told; 

And  waves  aglow  with  sunset  gold, 
Rising  and  breaking  in  steady  chime, 
Beat  the  rhythm  and  kept  the  time. 

And  the  sunset  paled,  and  warmed 

once  more 
With  a  softer,  tenderer  after-glow ; 

In  the  east  was  moon-rise,  with  boats 

off-shore 

And  sails  in  the  distance   drifting 
slow. 

The  beacon  glimmered  from  Ports 
mouth  bar, 

The  White  Isle  kindled  its  great  red 
star; 

And  life  and  death  in  my  old-time  lay 

Mingled  in  peace  like  the  night  and 
day! 


"Well!"  said  the  Man  of  Books, 

"your  story 

Is  really  not  ill  told  in  verse. 
As  the  Celt  said  of  purgatory, 
One  might  go   farther  and  fare 

worse." 

The  Reader  smiled;  and  once  again 
With    steadier    voice   took   up    his 

strain, 

While  the  fair  singer  from  the  neigh 
boring  tent 

Drew  near,  and  at  his  side  a  graceful 
listener  bent. 


THE  BROTHER  OF  MERCY. 


361 


THE  BROTHER  OF  MERCY. 

PIERO  LUCA,  known  of  all  the  town 
As  the  gray  porter  by  the  Pitti  wall 
Where  the  noon  shadows  of  the  gar 
dens  fall, 

Sick  and  in  dolor,  waited  to  lay  down 
His  last  sad  burden,  and  beside  his 

mat 
The  barefoot  monk  of  La  Certosa  sat. 


Unseen,  in  square  and  blossoming 

garden  drifted, 
Soft  sunset  lights  through  green  Val 

d'  Arno  sifted ; 
Unheard,    below    the    living    shuttles 

shifted 
Backward   and    forth,   and   wove,    in 

love  or  strife, 
In  mirth  or  pain,  the  mottled  web  of 

life; 
But  when  at  last  came  upward  from 

the  street 
Tinkle  of  bell  and  tread  of  measured 

feet, 
The  sick  man  started,  strove  to  rise 

in  vain, 
Sinking  back  heavily  with  a  moan  of 

pain. 
And  the  monk  said,   "  'T  is  but  the 

Brotherhood 
Of    Mercy    going     on     some    errand 

good : 
Their  black  masks  by  the  palace-wall 

I  see." 

Piero  answered  faintly,  "Woe  is  me! 
This  day  for  the  first  time  in  forty 

years 
In  vain  the  bell  hath  sounded  in  my 

ears, 
Calling  me  with  my  brethren  of  the 

mask, 
Beggar  and  prince  alike,  to  some  new 

task 
Of    love    or   pity, — haply     from     the 

street 
To  bear  a  wretch  plague-stricken,  or, 

with  feet 

Hushed  to  the  quickened  ear  and  fe 
verish  brain, 


To  tread  the  crowded  lazaretto's 
floors, 

Down  the  long  twilight  of  the  corri 
dors, 

Midst  tossing  arms  and  faces  full  of 
pain. 

I  loved  the  work:  it  was  its  own  re 
ward. 

I  never  counted  on  it  to  offset 

My  sins,  which  are  many,  or  make 
less  my  debt 

To  the  free  grace  and  mercy  of  our 
Lord; 

But  somehow,  father,  it  has  come  to 
be 

In  these  long  years  so  much  a  part  of 
me, 

I  should  not  know  myself,  if  lacking 

it, 
But  with  the  work  the  worker  too 

would  die, 
And    in   my   place    some    other    self 

would  sit, 
Joyful  or  sad, — what  matters,  if  not 

I? 
And  now  all 's  over.    Woe  is  me !  "— 

"  My  son," 
The  monk  said  soothingly,  "  thy  work 

is  done; 
And  no  more  as  a  servant,  but  the 

guest 

Of  God  thou  enterest  thy  eternal  rest. 
No  toil,  no  tears,  no  sorrow  for  the 

lost, 
Shall   mar   thy   perfect  bliss.      Thou 

shalt  sit  down 
Clad   in   white    robes,    and    wear    a 

golden  crown 

Forever  and  forever." — Piero  tossed 
On  his   sick-pillow:   "Miserable  me! 
I  am  too  poor  for  such  grand  com 
pany; 
The  crown  would  be  too  heavy  for 

this  gray 
Old  head;  and  God  forgive  me  if  I 

say 
It  would  be  hard  to  sit  there  night 

and  day, 
Like  an  image  in  the  Tribune,  doing 

naught 


362 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


W;th  these  hard  hands,  that  all  my 

life  have  wrought, 
Not   for   bread   only,   but   for   pity's 

sake. 
I  'm  dull  at  prayers  :  I  could  not  keep 

awake, 
Counting  my  beads.     Mine 's   but  a 

crazy  head, 
Scarce  worth  the  saving,  if  all  else  be 

dead. 
And  if  one  goes  to  heaven  without  a 

heart, 

God  knows  he  leaves  behind  his  bet 
ter  part. 
I  love  my  fellow-men :   the  worst  I 

know 
I    would    do    good   to.      Will    death 

change  me  so 

That  I  shall  sit  among  the  lazy  saints, 
Turning  a  deaf  ear  to  the  sore  com 
plaints 
Of  souls  that  suffer?     Why,  I  never 

yet 
Left  a  poor  dog  in  the  strada  hard 

beset, 
Or  ass  o'erladen!   Must  I   rate  man 

less 

Than  dog  or  ass,  in  holy  selfishness? 
Methinks      (Lord,     pardon,     if     the 

thought  be  sin!) 
The   world   of  pain  were   better,   if 

therein 
One's  heart  might  still  be  human,  and 

desires 

Of  natural  pity  drop  upon  its  fires 
Some  cooling  tears." 

Thereat  the  pale  monk  crossed 
His  brow,  and  muttering,  "  Madman ! 

thou  art  lost !  " 
Took  up  his  pyx  and  fled;  and,  left 

alone, 
The  sick  man  closed  his  eyes  with  a 

great  groan 
That  sank  into  a  prayer,  "Thy  will 

be  done!" 


Then  was  he  made  aware,  by  soul 

or  ear, 

Of  somewhat  pure  and  holy  bending 
o'er  him, 


And  of  a  voice  like  that  of  her  who 

bore  him, 
Tender     and     most     compassionate 

"  Never  fear ! 
For  heaven  is  love,  as  God  himself  \i 

love; 
Thy  work  below  shall  be  thy  wort 

above." 
And  when  he  looked,  lo!  in  the  sterr 

monk's  place 
He    saw    the    shining   of   an    angel': 

face! 


The  Traveller  broke  the  pause.  "  I  V< 

seen 
The  Brothers  down  the  long  stree 

steal, 
Black,  silent,  masked,  the  crowd  be 

tween, 

And  felt  to  doff  my  hat  and  knee 
With    heart,    if    not    with    knee,    ii 

prayer, 

For  blessings  on  their  pious  care. 
The     Reader     wiped     his     glasses 

"  Friends  of  mine, 
We'll  try  our  home-brewed  next,  in 

stead  of  foreign  wine." 


AT  PORT  ROYAL. 

THE  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land 
The  ship-lights  on  the  sea; 

The  night-wind  smooths  with  drifting 

sand 
Our  track  on  lone  Tybee. 

At  last  our  grating  keels  outslide, 
Our  good  boats  forward  swing; 

And  while  we   ride  the  land-lockec 

tide, 
Our  negroes  row  and  sing. 

For  dear  the  bondman  holds  his  gift! 

Of  music  and  of  song : 
The  gold  that  kindly  Nature  sifts 

Among  his  sands  of  wrong ; 


AT  PORT  ROYAL. 


363 


The  power  to  make  his  toiling  days 
And  poor  home-comforts  please ; 

The  quaint  relief  of  mirth  that  plays 
With  sorrow's  minor  keys. 

Another  glow  than  sunset's  fire 
Has  rilled  the  west  with  light, 

Where    field   and   garner,    barn   and 

byre, 
Are  blazing  through  the  night. 

The  land  is  wild  with  fear  and  hate, 
The  rout  runs  mad  and  fast; 

From   hand   to   hand,    from  gate   to 

gate 
The  flaming  brand  is  passed. 

The  lurid  glow  falls  strong  across 
Dark  faces  broad  with  smiles: 

Not  theirs  the  terror,  hate,  and  loss 
That  fire  yon  blazing  piles. 

With  oar-strokes  timing  to  their  song, 
They  weave  in  simple  lays 

The  pathos  of  remembered  wrong, 
The  hope  of  better  days, — 

The  triumph-note  that  Miriam  sung, 
The  joy  of  uncaged  birds: 

Softening  with  Afric's  mellow  tongue 
Their  broken  Saxon  words. 


SONG  OF  THE  NEGRO  BOATMEN. 

Oh,  praise  an'  tanks!      De  Lord  he 

come 

To  set  de  people  free; 
An'  massa  tink  it  day  ob  doom, 

An'  we  ob  jubilee. 
De  Lord  dat  heap  de  Red  Sea  waves 

He  jus'  as  'trong  as  den; 
He  say  de  word:  we  las'  night  slaves; 
To-day,  de  Lord's  free  men. 
De  yam    will    grow,    de    cotton 

blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn ; 
Oh   nebber   you    fear,   if   nebber 

you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn! 


Ole  massa  on  he  trabbels  gone; 

He  leaf  de  land  behind : 
De  Lord's  breff  blow  him  furder  on, 

Like  corn-shuck  in  de  wind. 
We  own  de  hoe,  we  own  de  plough, 

We  own  de  hands  dat  hold ; 
We  sell  de  pig,  we  sell  de  cow, 
But  nebber  chile  be  sold. 

De   yam   will   grow,     de    cotton 

blow, 

We'll  hab  de  rice  an'  corn; 
Oh   nebber    you    fear,    if   nebber 

you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn! 


We  pray  de  Lord :  he  gib  us  signs 

Dat  some  day  we  be  free; 
De  norf-wind  tell  it  to  de  pines, 

De  wild-duck  to  de  sea ; 
We  tink  it  when  de  church-bell  ring, 

We  dream  it  in  de  dream; 
De  rice-bird  mean  it  when  he  sing, 
De  eagle  when  he  scream. 
De  yam   will    grow,    de    cotton 

blow, 

We'll  hab  de  rice  an'  corn; 
Oh   nebber   you   fear,   if   nebber 

you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn! 


We  know  de  promise  nebber  fail, 

An'  nebber  lie  de  word; 
So,  like  de  'postles  in  de  jail, 

We  waited  for  de  Lord: 
An'  now  he  open  ebery  door, 

An'  trow  away  de  key; 
He  tink  we  lub  him  so  before, 
We  lub  him  better  free. 

De   yam    will   grow,    de    cotton 

blow, 

He'll  gib  de  rice  an'  corn; 
Oh   nebber   you   fear,   if   nebber 

you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn! 


So  sing  our  dusky  gondoliers; 

And  with  a  secret  pain, 
And  smiles  that  seem  akin  to  tears, 

We  hear  the  wi44  refrain. 


364 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


We  dare  not  share  the  negro's  trust, 

Nor  yet  his  hope  deny; 
We  only  know  that  God  is  just, 

And  every  wrong  shall  die. 

Rude  seems  the  song ;  each  swarthy 
face, 

Flame-lighted,  ruder  still: 
We  start  to  think  that  hapless  race 

Must  shape  our  good  or  ill; 

That  laws  of  changeless  justice  bind 
Oppressor  with  oppressed ; 

And,  close  as  sin  and  suffering  joined, 
We  march  to  Fate  abreast. 

Sing  on,  poor  hearts!  your  chant  shall 
be 

Our  sign  of  blight  or  bloom, 
The  Vala-song  of  Liberty, 

Or  death-rune  of  our  doom! 


ASTR^A    AT    THE    CAPITOL. 

ABOLITION  OF  SLAVERY  IN  THE  DISTRICT 
OF  COLUMBIA,    1 862. 

WHEN  first  I  saw  our  banner  wave 
Above  the  nation's  council-hall, 
I  heard  beneath  its  marble  wall 

The  clanking  fetters  of  the  slave! 

In  the  foul  market-place  I  stood, 
And  saw  the  Christian  mother  sold, 
And    childhood    with    its    locks    of 
gold, 

Blue-eyed  and  fair  with  Saxon  blood. 

I  shut  my  eyes,  I  held  my  breath, 
And,   smothering   down  the   wrath 

and  shame 

That  set  my  Northern  blood  aflame, 
Stood   silent, — where   to    speak    was 
death. 

Beside  me  gloomed  the  prison-cell 
Where  wasted  one  in  slow  decline 
For  uttering  simple  words  of  mine, 

And  loving  freedom  all  too  well. 


The  flag  that  floated  from  the  dome 
Flapped  menace  in  the  morning 

air ; 
I  stood  a  perilled  stranger  where 

The  human  broker  made  his  home. 

For    crime   was   virtue :     Gown   and 

Sword 
And  Law  their  threefold  sanction 

gave, 

And  to  the  quarry  of  the  slave 
Went  hawking  with  our  symbol-bird. 

On  the  oppressor's  side  was  power; 
And  yet  I  knew  that  every  wrong, 
However  old,  however  strong, 

But  waited  God's  avenging  hour. 

I  knew  that  truth  would  crush  the 

He,- 
Somehow,     some     time,    the     end 

would  be; 

Yet  scarcely  dared  I  hope  to  see 
The  triumph  with  my  mortal  eye. 

But  now  I  see  it!     In  the  sun 

A    free    flag    floats    from    yonder 

dome, 
And    at   the   nation's    hearth    and 

home 
The  justice  long  delayed  is  done. 

Not  as  we  hoped,  in  calm  of  prayer, 
The  message  of  deliverance  comes. 
But  heralded  by  roll  of  drums 

On  waves  of  battle-troubled  air  I 

Midst  sounds  that  madden  and  ap 
pall, 

The   song   that   Bethlehem's    shep 
herds  knew! 

The  harp  of  David  melting  through 
The  demon-agonies  of  Saul! 

Not  as  we  hoped;  but  what  are  we? 
Above  our  broken  dreams  and 

plans 
God    lays,    with    wiser    hand   than 

man's, 
The  corner-stones  of  liberty. 


THE  PROCLAMATION. 


365 


I  cavil  not  with  Him:  the  voice 
That  freedom's  blessed  gospel  tells 
Is  sweet  to  me  as   silver  bells, 

Rejoicing!  yea,  I  will  rejoice! 

Dear  friends  still  toiling  in  the  sun; 
Ye  dearer  ones  who,  gone  before, 
Are     watching    from    the    eternal 
shore 

The  slow  work  by  your  hands  begun, 

Rejoice  with  me!  The  chastening  rod 
Blossoms    with    love;    the    furnace 

heat 
Grows    cool    beneath    His    blessed 

feet 
Whose  form  is  as  the  Son  of  God! 

Rejoice!   Our  Marah's  bitter  springs 
Are  sweetened;  on   our   ground  of 

grief 
Rise  day  by  day  in  strong  relief 

The  prophecies   of  better  things. 

Rejoice  in  hope!  The  day  and  night 
Are  one  with  God,  and  one  with 

them 

Who  see  by  faith  the  cloudy  hem 
Of   judgment    fringed   with    Mercy's 
light! 


THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN  OF  1862. 

THE  flags  of  war  like  storm-birds  fly, 
The  charging  trumpets  blow; 

Yet  rolls  no  thunder  in  the  sky, 
No  earthquake  strives  below. 

And,  calm  and  patient,  Nature  keeps 
Her  ancient  promise  well,  • 

Though  o'er  her  bloom  and  greenness 

sweeps 
The  battle's  breath  of  hell. 

And  still  she  walks  in  golden  hours 
Through   harvest-happy    farms, 

And   still   she  wears  her  fruits  and 

flowers 
Like  jewels  on  her  arms. 


What  mean  the  gladness  of  the  plain, 
This  joy  of  eve  and  morn, 

The  mirth  that  shakes  the  beard  of 

grain 
And  yellow  locks  of  corn? 

Ah !  eyes  may  well  be  full  of  tears, 
And  hearts  with  hate  are  hot; 

But  even-paced  come  round  the  years, 
And  Nature  changes  not 

She  meets   with    smiles    our    bitter 

grief, 

With  songs  our  groans  of  pain; 
She  mocks   with  tint  of  flower   and 

leaf 
The  war-field's  crimson  stain. 

Still,  in  the  cannon's  pause,  we  hear 
Her  sweet  thanksgiving-psalm; 

Too  near  to  God  for  doubt  or  fear, 
She  shares  the  eternal  calm. 

She  knows  the  seed  lies  safe  below 
The  fires  that  blast  and  burn ; 

For  all  the  tears  of  blood  we  sow 
She  waits  the  rich  return. 

She  sees  with  clearer  eye  than  ours 
The  good  of  suffering  born, — 

The   hearts   that    blossom    like    her 

flowers, 
And  ripen  like  her  corn. 

Oh,  give  to  us,  in  times  like  these, 

The  vision  of  her  eyes; 
And  make  her  fields  and  fruited  trees 

Our  golden  prophecies! 

Oh,  give  to  us  her  finer  ear! 

Above  this  stormy  din, 
We  too  would  hear  the  bells  of  cheer 

Ring  peace  and  freedom  in. 


THE  PROCLAMATION. 

SAINT  PATRICK,   slave  to  Milcho  of 

the  herds 
Of  Ballymena,  wakened    with    these 

words : 


366 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


"Arise,  and  flee 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage,  and 
be  free!" 

Glad  as  a  soul   in  pain,  who  hears 
from  heaven 

The  angels  singing  of  his  sins   for 
given, 
And,  wondering,  sees 

His  prison  opening  to  their   golden 
keys, 

He  rose  a  man  who  laid  him  down  a 

slave, 
Shook   from  his  locks  the  ashes   of 

the  grave, 
And  outward  trod 
Into  the  glorious  liberty  of  GOG. 

He  cast   the    symbols   of  his   shame 

away; 
And,  passing  where  the  sleeping  Mil- 

cho  lay, 

Though  back  and  limb 
Smarted    with     wrong,     he    prayed, 

"God  pardon  him!" 

So  went  he  forth;  but  in  God's  time 

he  came 
To    light   on    Uilline's    hills    a    holy 

flame; 

And,  dying,  gave 
The  land  a  saint  that  lost  him  as  a 

slave. 


O   dark,   sad  millions,  patiently  and 

dumb 
Waiting  for  God,  your  hour  at  last 

has  come, 

And  freedom's  song 
Breaks  the  long  silence  of  your  night, 

of  wrong! 

Arise  and  flee!  shake  off  the  vile  re 
straint 
Of  ages;  but,  like  Ballymena's  saint, 

The  oppressor  spare, 
Heap  only  on  his  head  the  coals  of 
prayer. 


Go  forth,  like  him!  like  him  return 

again, 
To  bless  the  land  whereon  in  bitter 

pain 

Ye  toiled  at  first, 

And   heal   with   freedom  what   your 
slavery  cursed. 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE. 

UP    from    the    meadows     rich     with 

corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick 
stand 

Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Mary 
land. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord 
To   the   eyes  of  the   famished   rebel 
horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early 
fall 

When  Lee  marched  over  the  moun 
tain-wall  ; 

Over  the  mountains   winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  tf.tir  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped   in   the   morning   wind :   the 

sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not 

one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and 
ten; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 
She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled 
down; 


ANDREW  RYKMAN'S  PRAYER. 


367 


In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He    glanced;     the    old   flag   met    his 
sight. 

"  Halt !  "—the  dust-brown  ranks  stood 

fast. 
"Fire!"— out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It    shivered    the   window,    pane    and 

sash; 
It    rent   the   banner   with    seam   and 

gash. 

Quick,    as    it    fell,    from    the   broken 

staff 
Dame    Barbara    snatched    the    silken 

scarf. 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window- 
sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray 

head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"   she 

said. 

A  r hade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To    life   at   that    woman's    deed    and 
word; 

"  Who   touches   a   hair   of   yon   gray 

head 
Dies  like  a  dog!   March  on!  "  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet : 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 


Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 
On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well  ; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone   over   it   with    a   warm   good 
night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 
And  the  Rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no 
more. 

Honor  to  her !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave ! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  towm ! 


ANDREW  RYKMAN'S   PRAYER. 

ANDREW  RYKMAN'S  dead  and  gone; 

You  can  see  his  leaning  slate 
In  the   graveyard,   and  thereon 

Read  his   name  and  date. 

"  Trust  is  truer  than  our  fears," 
Runs  the  legend  through  the  moss, 

"  Gain  is  not  in  added  years, 
Nor  in  death  is  loss" 

Still  the  feet  that  thither  trod, 
All  the  friendly  eyes  are  dim; 

Only   Nature,  now,   and  God 
Have  a  care  for  him. 

There  the  dews  of  quiet  fall, 

Singing  birds  and  soft  winds  stray; 

Shall  the  tender  Heart  of  all 
Be  less  kind  than  they? 

What  he  was  and  what  he  is 
They  who  ask  may  haply  find, 

If  they  read  this  prayer  of  his 
Which  he  left  behind. 


Pardon,  Lord,  the  lips  that  dare 
Shape  in  words  a  mortal's  prayer! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Prayer,  that,  when  my  day  is  done, 
And  I  see  its  setting  sun, 
Shorn  and  beamless,  cold  and  dim, 
Sink  beneath  the  horizon's  rim, — 
When  this  ball  of  rock  and  clay 
Crumbles  from  my  feet  away, 
And  the  solid  shores  of  sense 
Melt  into  the  vague  immense, 
Father !  I  may  come  to  Thee 
Even  with  the  beggar's  plea, 
As  the  poorest  of  Thy  poor, 
With   my  needs,  and  nothing  more. 

Not  as  one  who  seeks  his  home 
With  a  step  assured  I  come; 
Still  behind  the  tread  I  hear 
Of  my  life-companion,    Fear ; 
Still  a  shadow  deep  and  vast 
From  my  westering  feet  is  cast, 
Wavering,  doubtful,  undefined, 
Never  shapen  nor  outlined : 
From  myself  the  fear  has  grown, 
And  the  shadow  is  my  own. 
Yet,  O  Lord,  through  all  a  sense 
Of  Thy  tender  providence 
Stays  my  failing  heart  on  Thee, 
And  confirms  the  feeble  knee; 
And,  at  times,  my  worn  feet  press 
Spaces  of  cool  quietness, 
Lilied  whiteness  shone  upon 
Not  by  light  of  moon  or  sun. 
Hours  there  be  of  inmost  calm, 
Broken  but  by  grateful  psalm, 
When  I   love  Thee  more  than  fear 

Thee, 
And  Thy  blessed  Christ  seems  near 

me, 

With  forgiving  look,  as  when 
He  beheld  the  Magdalen. 
Well  I  know  that  all  things  move 
To  the  spheral  rhythm  of  love, — 
That  to  Thee,  O  Lord  of  all ! 
Nothing  can  of  chance  befall : 
Child  and  seraph,  mote  and  star, 
Well  Thou  knowest  what  we  are! 
Through  Thy  vast  creative  plan 
Looking,  from  the  worm  to  man, 
There   is   pity   in  Thine   eyes, 
But  no  hatred  nor  surprise. 
Not  in  blind  caprice  of  will, 
Not  in  cunning  sleight  of  skill, 


Not  for  show  of  power,  was  wrought 
Nature's  marvel  in  Thy  thought. 
Never  careless  hand  and  vain 
Smites  these  chords  of  joy  and  pain: 
No  immortal  selfishness 
Plays  the  game  of  curse  and  bless : 
Heaven  and  earth  are  witnesses 
That  Thy  glory  goodness  is. 
Not  for  sport  of  mind  and  force 
Hast  Thou  made  Thy  universe, 
But  as  atmosphere  and  zone 
Of  Thy  loving  heart  alone. 
Man,  who  walketh  in  a  show, 
Sees  before  him,  to  and  fro, 
Shadow  and  illusion  go; 
All  things  flow  and  fluctuate, 
Now  contract  and  now  dilate. 
In  the  welter  of  this  sea, 
Nothing  stable  is  but  Thee ;  . 
In  this  whirl  of  swooning  trance, 
Thou  alone  art  permanence; 
All  without  Thee  only  seems, 
All  beside  is  choice  of  dreams. 
Never  yet  in  darkest  mood 
Doubted  I  that  Thou  wast  good, 
Nor  mistook  my  will  for  fate, 
Pain  of  sin  for  heavenly  hate, — 
Never  dreamed  the  gates  of  pearl 
Rise  from  out  the  burning  marl, 
Or  that  good  can  only  live 
Of  the  bad  conservative, 
And  through  counterpoise  of  hell 
Heaven  alone  be  possible. 

For  myself  alone  I  doubt; 

All  is  well,  I  know,  without; 

I  alone  the  beauty  mar, 

I  alone  the  music  jar. 

Yet,  with  hands  by  evil  stained, 

And  an  ear  by  discord  pained, 

I  am  groping  for  the  keys 

Of  the  heavenly  harmonies; 

Still  within  my  heart  I  bear 

Love  for  all  things  good  and  fair. 

Hands  of  want  or  souls  in  pais 

Have  not   sought  my  door  in  vain; 

I  have  kept  my  fealty  good 

To  the  human  brotherhood ; 

Scarcely  have  I  asked  in  prayer 

That  which  others  might  not  share. 

I,   who  hear  with  secret  shame 

Praise  that  paineth  more  than  blame, 


ANDREW  RYKMAN'S   PRAYER. 


Rich  alone  in  favors  lent, 
Virtuous  by  accident, 
Doubtful  where  I  fain  would  rest, 
Frailest  where  I  seem  the  best, 
Only  strong  for  lack  of  test, — 
What  am  I,  that  I  should  press 
Special  pleas   of   selfishness, 
Coolly  mounting  into  heaven 
On  my  neighbor  unforgiven? 
Ne'er  to  me,  hcwe'er  disguised, 
Comes  a  saint  unrecognized; 
Never  fails  my  heart  to  greet 
Noble  deed  with  warmer  beat ; 
Halt  and  maimed,  I  own  not  less 
All  the  grace  of  holiness ; 
Nor,  through  shame  or  self-distrust, 
Less  I  love  the  pure  and  just. 
Lord,  forgive  these  words  of  mine : 
What  have  I  that  is  not  Thine? 
Whatsoe'er  I  fain  would  boast 
Needs  Thy  pitying  pardon  most. 
Thou,  O  Elder   Brother!  who 
In  Thy  flesh  our  trial  knew, 
Thou,  who  hast  been  touched  by  these 
Our  most  sad  infirmities, 
Thou  alone  the  gulf  canst  span 
In  the  dual  heart  of  man, 
And  between  the  soul  and  sense 
Reconcile  all  difference. 
Change  the  dream  of  me  and  mine 
For  the  truth  of  Thee  and  Thine, 
And,  through  chaos,  doubt,  and  strife 
Interfuse  Thy  calm  of  life. 
Haply,  thus  by  Thee  renewed, 
In  Thy  borrowed  goodness  good, 
Some  sweet  morning  yet  in  God's 
Dim,  aeonian  periods, 
Joyful  I  shall  wake  to  see 
Those  I  love  who  rest  in  Thee, 
And  to  them  in  Thee  allied, 
Shall  my  soul  be  satisfied. 


Scarcely  Hope  hath  shaped  for  me 
What  the  future  life  may  be. 
Other  lips  may  well  be  bold; 
Like  the  publican  of  old, 
I_can  only  urge  the  plea, 


Lord,  be  merciful  to  me !  " 
Nothing  of  desert  I  claim, 
Unto  me  belongeth  shame, 
slot  for  me  the  crowns  of  gold, 

alms,  and  harpings  manifold; 
STot  for  erring  eye  and  feet 
asper  wall  and  golden  street. 
What  thou  wilt,  O   Father,  give! 
All  is  gain  that  I  receive. 

f  my  voice  I  may  not  raise 

n  the  elders'  song  of  praise, 
.i  I  may  not,   sin-defiled, 

laim  my  birthright  as  a  child, 
Suffer  it  that  I  to  Thee 
A.S  an  hired  servant  be ; 
Let  the  lowliest  task  be  mine, 
Grateful,  so  the  work  be  Thine; 
Let  me  find  the  humblest  place 
In  the  shadow  of  Thy  grace: 
Blest  to  me  were  any  spot 
Where  temptation  whispers  not. 
If  there  be  some  weaker  one, 
Give  me  strength  to  help  him  on; 
If  a  blinder  soul  there  be, 
Let  me  guide  him  nearer  Thee. 
Make  my  mortal   dreams  come  trtft 
With  the  work  I  fain  would  do ; 
Clothe  with  life  the  weak  intent, 
Let  me  be  the  thing  I  meant; 
Let  me  find  in  Thy  employ 
Peace  that  dearer  is  than  joy; 
Out  of  self  to  love  be  led 
And   to   heaven   acclimated, 
Until  all  things  sweet  and  good 
Seem  my  natural  habitude. 


So  we  read  the  prayer  of  him 
Who,  with  John  of  Labadie, 

Trod,  of  old,  the  oozy  rim 
Of  the  Zuyder  Zee. 

Thus  did  Andrew  Rykman  pray, 
Are  we  wiser    better  grown, 

That  we  may  not,  in  our  day, 
Make  his  prayer  our  own? 


